


The Widow, The Witch & The Weeper: A Tale of Love and Magic

by MidtownKitten



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexuality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gay Sex, Lesbian Sex, Male Friendship, Multi, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidtownKitten/pseuds/MidtownKitten
Summary: Picking up where Cursed S1 left off, we follow the path of the Sword of Power as it changes hands - from Merlin to Morgana to Nimue to Lancelot and finally to Arthur, the future King. Magic and destiny collide as each of them discovers pleasure and purpose in their own way, leading them to take their place in history or myth.Like all good legends, this is a tale that begins and ends with love.
Relationships: Arthur & Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Arthur & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Merlin & Morgana | Igraine (Cursed), Morgana | Igraine & Nimue (Cursed), Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Kudos: 7





	1. The Widow & The Wizard

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This chapter contains M/F sex!

Everything was blood and wind and lightning. Morgana stood rooted to the rocky overpass, still reeling from watching the arrow sink into Nimue’s chest, watching the wizard grab for her hand as she stumbled and fell, watching her slip away, 

_Nimue is dead_. Morgana knew it must be true, nobody could survive a fall from such a height, not into the raging river filled with jagged rocks, churning below the falls. But she could not believe it. She would not. She pushed the thought away, not ready to face it, to accept a world without the Wolf Blood Witch, who had appeared out of nowhere and changed everything. Nimue had given the fey hope. And courage. And the sword. 

_The sword._

Morgana watched as Merlin wielded the sword of power with a terrifying kind of grace, as if he had been born to command the Devil’s Tooth. He cut down the row of red paladins following where Iris had lead them like they were no more than blades of grass, showering Morgana in mists of blood. She should have been frightened, but she was mesmerized. When Nimue had used the sword, it had left her weak and shaken, but in Merlin’s hands, it was a thing of beauty. Not an hour ago, he had been on death’s doorstep - she should know, now that she and the Widow, the bearer of death, were one. But now, he was far beyond the Widow’s grasp, fortified by the sword, radiating once again the magic for which his name was known to every child across the realm. 

Merlin the Magician. She had thought him a myth. But the man before her, bending the lightning to his will, was very real and very powerful. 

From somewhere inside her, Morgana heard a whispering, skittering voice reply to her thoughts. _You could be powerful too_. Morgana shuddered faintly. The Cailleach was a strange mistress. The Widow had warned her that to bargain with the spider demon was a dangerous game, but Morgana could not turn her back on all that the Cailleach promised. If it was true, if she was destined to be the most powerful sorceress the world had ever seen, how could she not take every chance to see that fate fulfilled? 

“Morgana!” The thunder itself seemed to call her name, but it was Merlin who had spoken. The storm he had summoned had darkened the sky and the stone bridge on which they stood began to crumble beneath their feet. She met his eyes, which glowed with an unearthly blue fire, as he extended an arm towards her. _Come with me,_ his gaze said. 

Morgana did not hesitate. She suddenly understood with piercing clarity that there was only one way to become who she was meant to be. And he was standing right in front of her. She stepped forward to take his outstretched hand and felt the breath sucked from her body, as he pulled her in tight and enveloped her within his cloak. Smoke and water swirled around them and in the deafening roar, Morgana could only cling to the wizard’s lean frame and hope to the gods she lived to see another sunrise. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his bloodstained shirt and then there was only the beat of his heart, in time with hers, as they disappeared into the wind together. 

*****

Morgana awoke slowly, feeling the warmth of a fire beside her and the softness of a real bed beneath her. She sat up, running her hands over the quilt that covered her, and looked around. The room was simply furnished - she was certainly in no lord’s castle, as she had been during the brief stay at her uncle’s finely appointed abode in Gremaire. So then, where was she? And where was Merlin?

Rising from the bed, Morgana opened the room’s only window and was met by a pink sky at sunrise, peeking through a canopy of trees. So she had lived, afterall. The surrounding forest was old and dense, and from where she stood, Morgana could see no markers to indicate where it might be. Wafting in on the breeze, Morgana inhaled the scent of fresh bread. She turned to leave the room, but realized she was clothed only in a cotton nightshift. Draped over a chair near the fire, she spied the black robe and veil the Widow had given her and she changed quickly, shivering in the robe’s damp and heavy folds. Lowering the veil over her face, Morgana opened the bedroom door and made her way cautiously down a narrow flight of stairs. It was a simple cottage that could have belonged to any farmer or baker or blacksmith, but it was a magician who stood there staring into the blazing hearth. 

Alone with Merlin for the first time, Morgana felt herself strangely nervous. She took a breath as she weighed which questions she ought to ask, but it was the wizard who spoke first. Without turning from the fire, Merlin said, “I wondered when you’d wake. Are you hungry? Come.” He strolled towards the cottage’s kitchen and Morgana, loathe as she was to be ordered about, followed behind. What she saw on the long wooden table made her dark eyes go wide. There were loaves of warm bread, mountains of fruit, plates piled high with cakes and sweets, dishes of golden butter and honey, pitchers full of fresh milk and cream. It was more food than she had ever seen on one table. 

“Where… how…?” She hardly knew what to say. 

Merlin grinned. From a strange looking brass pot, he poured something black and steaming hot into a cup, and inhaled its scent. “Coffee,” he said. “It’s made from beans, if you can believe that. I learned of it when I traveled across the sea to the kingdoms of the far east.” Merlin sipped from the cup, savoring the taste. “It was lifetimes ago. Yet, I still conjured this from memory alone.” He shook his head, as if he himself could not believe it possible. 

Morgana circled the table. “You made all of this? With magic?”

Finally turning to look at her, Merlin smiled, almost sheepishly. “For so long, I believed magic was lost to me forever. To find my powers fully restored after all this time… I might have got a bit carried away.”

Morgana tentatively reached for a square of lemon cake, dotted with poppy seeds and dripping with sweet glaze. She half expected the food to disappear the moment she touched it, but it remained solid, and tasted like pure heaven in her mouth. It was gone in two bites and she threw her veil aside to gobble down more fruit, more bread with jam and butter, more creamy milk straight from the jug. As she ate her fill, she could not help but think of the fey starving in their hideout, of the lives lost trying to protect the one mill the red paladins had left standing to lure them out. “We could have used your help,” she said, her tone reproachful.

“How much help could a magician with no magic have been?” Merlin countered. “But I did what I could, believe me. I have been trying to broker peace between men and fey for ages - actual ages of time - but I fear, it is now and has always been, a lost cause.”

Morgana shook her head, wiping crumbs from her mouth. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “They’re finally safe.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow at her. “Are they?”

Morgana felt a stab of dread. “Aren’t they?”

“You have the sight,” he said, “you tell me.” Taking a plum from the table, he bit into it and wandered outside into the sunshine. 

Morgana searched her mind and with the Widow’s eyes, saw many fey fallen on the sand, their bloodied bodies left to the tide. With growing panic, she sought her brother’s face among the dead, but thankfully, could not find him there. Morgana strode after Merlin and demanded, “What happened?”

Merlin shrugged. “Who knows? Uther broke his word, or the red paladins found them or the leper king set his minions upon them for no other reason than he’s a complete and utter shit. I don’t know why they were attacked, but I can tell you this - they will be pursued no matter where they go. Their time is done, Morgana. There is nowhere left for their kind in this world.”

“You’re wrong,” Morgana replied, her voice too shrill. “I would know if all the fey were meant to die. I would feel it.”

“I did not say they must die, only that they must find another place to live.”

“A place not of this world? What place could that possibly be?” Morgana felt her frustration growing. The wizard was talking nonsense while the people she had sworn to protect were facing extinction.

Merlin cocked his head at her. “You know, when you found me, I thought my time had finally come. We’ve made so many deals over the years, the Widow and I, but I have yet to see her true face.” Moving closer, he studied Morgana’s features intently and then ran his fingertips across her forehead, following the curve of her cheek, then over the swell of her bottom lip. He shook his head slightly. “Yours is not the face of death,” he said. “But I see now why she brought us together.”

Morgana could not have said why, but she felt herself drawn to Merlin’s touch, connected to him in a way she did not yet understand. “Tell me,” she said. 

“To make you the greatest sorceress who ever lived.” Merlin replied. His voice was quiet and steady, but his eyes glittered and danced. “To teach you all that I can so that you are ready to be a bridge between worlds when the time comes.”

“I don’t understand,” Morgana whispered. 

“You will,” Merlin said. Taking a few steps back, he widened his stance and closed his eyes, centering his energy. He brought his hands together and Morgana could see sparks of blue light flashing between them. When he unfurled his fingers, he held in his open palm a ball of blue flames. “Are you ready?”

Morgana stood up a little straighter and grounded herself to the earth. The air around them seemed to crackle, charged with power Morgana could feel, but not yet harness. “Yes,” she said. 

“Then let’s begin,” Merlin replied, and let the fireball fly. 

*****

Morgana lost track of the days she spent with Merlin at the cottage hidden in the woods. She took to magic as if it was a sixth sense she had always possessed but never known how to use and her power grew quickly. It was not a time of peaceful study, however, as she was a prickly pupil, easily frustrated and quick to lash out, and he was an impatient teacher, whose lessons were harsh and expectations high. It was late on a day when progress had been slow and both wizard and apprentice were nearing the end of their rope.

Sitting on a gnarled stump, Merlin sighed and rubbed his eyes. “The elements will always be your ally, but only if you learn to control their chaos. Now, set your intention, and strike that tree with lightning.”

Above them, the sky swirled with grey clouds. Morgana bit back a sharp retort and took a deep breath. She focused on the tree, on finding the lightning and directing its course. It was right there, so close. She pushed herself harder, trying to reach further, but the ability remained just beyond her grasp. She gave a frustrated groan as a light rain began to fall. “I can’t do it,” she said. 

“Of course you can. It’s easy, see?” With a flick of his wrist, Merlin sent a bolt of lightning crashing to the ground, close enough to Morgana to singe the ends of her hair. 

“Stop it!” she snapped at him. 

“Make me,” he replied and brought down another bolt that would have struck Morgana where she stood had she not sensed it coming and sidestepped out of its path at the last moment. It had been so easy with Nimue, Merlin thought - anger had been a natural gateway to her magic and she was never in short supply of that. But Morgana’s access to magic was granted through dark forces and although she easily mastered simple spells and slights of hand, her true power was still locked within her, try as he might to provoke her into release. Whirling on him, Morgana loosed a flash of white light in his direction, but it had none of the power of real lightning and fizzled in the air without ever coming close to doing him harm. Merlin barked a laugh. “If all you want to do is impress tyrant kings and small children with parlor tricks, then I’ve taught you all you need to know. You can memorize every spell in every book, but until you open yourself up to the source of your power, you will never be more than a silly girl playing at sorcery!”

“I don’t know how to do that!” Morgana cried, as the rain fell harder around them. “I can’t call to the Hidden like Nimue could. I’ll never be as strong as she was.”

“Is that why you let her die?” Merlin asked, trying a new tactic. “To rid the world of your rival for power?”

Morgana froze. “My rival?” she hissed, disbelieving. “Nimue was my friend! I believed in her. I would have given my life for her.” Smoke began to rise from the ground in a tight circle around the girl draped in black, as if she was tied to an invisible stake that had been set aflame. “When I saw that the Widow hunted her, I tried to warn her, to save her. I tried, Merlin, I swear I tried!” Morgana’s face was wet with tears and rain and the edges of her robe began to burn with an earth-bound fire that could not be doused by any storm. 

Merlin stood slowly. “Morgana, stop,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

She stared past him with wild eyes, choking on plumes of smoke. “But on the bridge, when she fell, why didn’t I reach for her then? Why didn’t I pull her to safety?”

Alarmed now, Merlin approached the girl. “You couldn’t have saved her,” he said. “Once the Widow has a name, there is no changing it. I know that truth better than most and I still tried, fool that I am. Now, stop this before you get hurt.”

Morgana shook her head. “You’re right,” she said. “I let her die. I told myself it was because of the Cailleach’s curse, but it was me.” The flames crept further up, inching closer to her flesh. “My jealousy. My desire for what she had. My weakness. It’s my fault.”

“Morgana, no!” Merlin shouted, stepping into the smoke. 

“It’s my fault Nimue is dead,” Morgana said softly, and in that instant, her entire body was consumed in fire. 

Merlin’s reaction was swift, the spell already half-uttered before the fire had time to take shape and burn. With a sweep of his arm, he sent a blast of icy wind in a wide arc around them. It swept away the billowing smoke and reduced the flames to a layer of frost sparkling on the grass and in the trees. Morgana crumpled to the ground and Merlin caught her as she fell. She smelled of burnt wool, but her skin was cold to touch. There was frost in her eyelashes when she opened her eyes to look up at him. 

“I loved her,” Morgana whispered. 

“So did I,” Merlin replied. And caught as they were in a moment of shared grief, of madness and magic combined, he dipped his head and kissed her. The feeling of Merlin’s mouth on hers sent a ripple of shock through Morgana’s body, and something else with it, something she had thought snuffed out the day Celia died. 

They drew apart and stared at each other. It was Merlin who looked away first. “Forgive me. I - “ he began, but was cut off when Morgana sat up and took his head between her hands, his beard coarse against her fingers. She searched his face, then pulled his lips back to hers, in a kiss that was all desperate, clumsy need and newly reawakened desire. She was operating on instinct, pushing his cloak from his shoulders, tearing his worn shirt in her hurry to remove it, to feel again the sweetness of skin pressed to skin she remembered so vividly. But when she moved to unfasten his belt, his hand closed on top of hers. 

“No,” he said.

“No?!” she repeated, incredulous. 

“You need to rest. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I don’t care,” she answered him impatiently, shifting her body closer to his and moving her hand, and his along with it, under the folds of her tattered robe to rest on her bare thigh. Memories of Celia’s gentle touch, of her kitten tongue skimming a dark nipple, of the breathless rush of delight when first they had lain together, naked in a hard, narrow bed, flooded Morgana’s memory and she parted her legs, inviting the wizard’s caress. 

Against his better judgement, Merlin slipped his hand beneath her small clothes and let his fingers explore her softness, but when they pushed inside the wet heat of her entrance, she stiffened. Merlin paused. “You’ve never…?”

Morgana could not quite look at him when she shook her head and replied, “Never with a man, no.”

He sighed and withdrew his hand. “Those who share my bed often regret it,” he said. “I don’t wish that for you, Morgana.”

Her eyes were still trained on the ground and her voice cracked as she said, “I haven’t been touched in so long. All I know now is death and loneliness. I’ve all but forgotten what it is to feel… good.” 

Truth be told, it had been a long time since Merlin had shared anyone’s bed, not counting those companions whose affections came at a cost. And right or wrong, he could not deny he wanted the girl, but if they were to become lovers, that would have to wait for another day. For now, though, he decided, he could help her feel good. 

“Come here,” he said, pulling her roughly into the space between his legs and turning her so that she leaned back into his chest. He pulled her robe up until the fabric pooled around her hips and then pushed her legs apart. Through the thin cotton of her small clothes, he traced the shape of her nether lips, the hood at the top of her mound, and the sensitive jewel it protected. When he could feel her wetness soaking through the cloth, he moved it aside so that his hand pressed into the wild tangle of curls and his fingers danced a maddening dance, not pushing for entry, but stroking, circling, teasing, until she was mewling like a cat in heat. Her head was thrown back on his shoulder, so that when she looked up at him and said, “More!” he saw right away the gold sparks flashing in her eyes. A realization dawned on him. 

“Morgana,” he said, against her ear, without stopping his ministrations. “Strike the tree with lightning.”

“I can’t,” she said, barely listening, focused only on the sensation building in her body. 

“Don’t think,” he said, his fingers circling faster, pushing her to the edge of release. “Do it! Strike the tree now!”

Morgana cried out as her pleasure crested in climax, arching her back against Merlin’s chest. Her body felt more alive than she knew possible, a conduit for energy, for passion, for life. The gold light filled her eyes as she felt the magic overtake her. She turned her gaze to the sky, not to seek out the lightning in the clouds, but to form it herself. With power she hadn’t known she possessed, Morgana hurled a lightning bolt at the tree before them, splitting it straight down the middle with a thunderous crack, and setting its roots on fire. Merlin didn’t move and neither did Morgana. They stayed like that, locked together and tethered to the forest floor for some time, watching the fire burn, hazy against the red sunset. Morgana’s eyes grew heavy, and as the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, she fell asleep, strangely safe in Merlin’s arms, a sorceress at last. 

*****

The discovery of pleasure as a gateway to magic changed everything. Morgana soon learned it only took a memory to light the spark she needed, and she had so many of them from which to choose - Celia’s scent, her smile, her taste. Memories of Merlin came to her as well; of the kiss they had shared, of the roughness and sureness of his touch, so different than what she had known with Celia. Sometimes she caught him watching her and thought he might touch her again, but he never did, and this was both a relief and a frustration. What were they to each other? No longer teacher and pupil, not really. Not friends, not lovers. Morgana hoped that when the time was right, the answer would be revealed, but as days stretched into weeks, she began to grow impatient. 

It was nothing to her now to command the thunder, wind, and rain, to wield the lightning with the precision of a dagger, to whip up sandstorms and icestorms, to conjure fog as thick as walls, mists as fine as lace. She could recite the spells in Merlin’s books in her sleep. She was restless. And she was ready. If she was waiting for a sign, she didn’t have to wait long. It came in the shape of a girl she knew well, sitting on a log, watching her bathe in the brook at dusk. A girl who just happened to be dead. 

Morgana emerged from the water shivering. When she saw Celia there, her heart tightened, too full of love and loss and the darkness that linked them to beat properly. “Are you going to give me my clothes?” she asked, “Or do you still enjoy seeing me naked?”

For all that a ghost could blush, Celia’s cheeks turned pink as she stood and handed Morgana her robe, then turned away. 

Morgana dressed, then from behind, slipped her arms around Celia’s frail form. “There,” she said. “Decent once more.”

Celia smiled, her burnt hands clasping Morgana’s and holding them fast. “You couldn’t be decent if you tried,” she said.

“Then I shan’t try,” Morgana whispered and turned Celia’s head to capture her mouth in a long kiss. 

There was something familiar in it, something sweet. But there was no breath from between Celia’s lips, no life, no heat. Morgana released her and sat down on the log. 

“You’re different,” Celia said, sitting as well. “Something’s changed.” Morgana nodded, unsure how to explain, and suddenly guilty about finding pleasure, however briefly, with someone else. Celia smoothed over Morgana’s wet braids. “It’s Merlin, isn’t it?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “The _magician.”_ They had always promised they would tell each other the truth no matter what, and so, Morgana nodded again. “Do you love him?” Celia asked. 

Morgana frowned, considering. “No,” she said, “But I… desire him.”

Celia looked away, concealing her hurt. “I think perhaps you are destined to desire many, and be desired by many in return,” she said. “There’s power in that. Maybe that’s why the Cailleach chose you.”

“Chose me for what?” 

Celia answered only with a question. “Where’s the sword?”

Morgana had given little thought to the sword since Nimue’s death. Maybe she had once imagined all that she could do, all those she could help, with such a weapon at her side, but she no longer had need for such things. She had magic now. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I suppose Merlin has it.”

“You must take it from him.”

“Take it from him? Why in all the gods’ names would I do that?”

Celia shrugged. “That’s the Cailleach’s message. Take the sword to the shores of Glastonbury. A friend waits for you there. That’s all I know.”

_Arthur,_ Morgana thought. He had somehow escaped with the fey and they waited for her to sail north. With Nimue gone, they needed a new leader. A new queen. Morgana began pacing back and forth. She didn’t even know where she was. Did Merlin have maps? Could she transport herself through time and space as he had done to bring them here? And to take the sword - how would she manage that? Surely he would not just give it up. If it came down to a fight, could she best him? Or perhaps there was something she could barter for it, something that he wanted. And something that she wanted too. “Tell the Cailleach I will do her bidding,” Morgana said, turning back to the log, but Celia was gone. At the back of her throat, she felt a strange kind of tickle, then something moving across her tongue. She parted her lips to let a small, black spider crawl out and she knew that the deal had been made. 

*****

Morgana returned to the cottage by the light of the moon. Inside, she found Merlin sitting by the hearth and drinking from a bottle of wine. “May I join you?” she asked him. He gestured to the other chair by the fire and when she sat, passed her the wine. Morgana drank, not for the taste of it, but for the courage she hoped the bottle might contain. After some time, she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You may ask, I may not answer,” Merlin replied. 

“That first night, when you brought me here and put me into bed… Did you undress me?”

It was clearly not the question Merlin had been expecting. “I… did, yes. You were cold and wet and covered in blood - mine mostly - so I thought it best - to preserve your health - to… do so.”

“Did you know then that you wanted me?”

Merlin paused, then said, “I knew then that we were connected, but I am not in the habit of bedding unconscious women.”

Summoning her nerve, Morgana stood and unlaced the top of her robe so that it fell free from her shoulders, leaving her naked from the waist up. “What about conscious ones?” Merlin watched her from his chair, his light eyes unusually dark in the shadows. Then he stood too, dwarfing her, devouring her with his gaze. His hand went to the belt of her robe, but this time it was she who stopped him. “I’ve never given myself to any man, you would be the first,” she said. “But I want something in return.”

“All women do,” Merlin muttered, backing up a pace. “What is it that you want?” As he asked her this, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a lean, scarred chest and tapered waist. 

Morgana took a breath. “The sword,” she said. 

He raised an eyebrow at her. Now his trousers were on the floor too and there he was, naked and advancing. He ran the backs of his fingers from her collarbone, down over the slope of her breasts, stopping to catch both nipples between thumb and forefinger. She gasped as he squeezed, pulling her closer. “So hungry,” he said softly. “So hungry for the world. You have tasted so little of it, but once you begin to sup at this table, I’m afraid you will find it mostly poison.” When he released her, her nipples ached, but if he had touched her, he would have found her wet and wanting. “What will you do with the sword?”

Morgana swallowed. It was hard to focus with his body so near, and her own body buzzing with insistent need. “Take it to Glastonbury. A friend waits for me there.”

“And if I refuse?” 

His mouth was so close to hers, she could almost feel him, taste him. “I don’t want to fight you, Merlin.”

“But you do want to fuck me,” he said, pulling her belt free, so that the robe slid down her legs. 

She knew she ought to be insulted by his coarse words, but what did the words matter if they were true? “Yes,” she said. 

He kissed her fiercely then, pulling her down with him to the threadbare rug by the fire. Pinning her beneath him, he paused to look her in the eye. “Don’t do this for the sword, don’t give it anything of yourself, of your body or your soul, not now, not ever. Do you understand me?”

Morgana nodded. “Not for the sword then,” she said, “For me.”

Merlin pushed his knee between her legs to open them. There was a hand there, probing, then a hardness. “Don’t expect tenderness,” he said. He may have been capable of that once, but the shards of all the broken things inside him were too sharp for that now. 

Morgana’s eyes were clear and blazing with gold when she said, “I never have.”

She made no sound when he thrust inside her. The pain was little, but the power of the union was great. Even Merlin felt it, as she began to move in time with him - the shifting of all things, the opening of doors, the future their combined magic made possible. She was crying out beneath him, her nails digging into his back, her hips rising to meet him. It took only a well-placed thumb grinding into her to make her body go taught, and then a flood of wetness coated his hand and his cock, as her pleasure reached its peak. When he could hold it no longer, Merlin withdrew, and stumbling back from the girl, turned to drain his seed into the fire. It flared, bursting momentarily with blue sparks, then returned to normal, crackling quietly in the silence between magician and mage. Morgana retrieved her robe and wrapped it around herself like a blanket, while Merlin scooped up the wine bottle and drank, naked in the fire’s glow. 

Without turning, he asked, “Did I hurt you?” 

“No,” she answered, which was mostly true. “But I felt… something happened when I… when we…”

“I felt it too,” Merlin said. 

“What does it mean?”

He stepped back into his trousers and pulled them up. “That is a question for another day,” he said. “For now, I think, to bed.”

He paused as he passed her, and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. Morgana could feel its warmth through the robe that covered her and after a moment, she brought her own hand up to rest on top of his. 

He turned to go but Morgana called out, “Merlin!” He stopped at the foot of the stairs and waited. “The sword?” 

“The sword is cursed and so are you,” he replied. “It will pass through many hands, but you will always be its true keeper, though you may come to wish you were not.”

“To Glastonbury then?” Morgana asked. “In the morning?”

Merlin did not confirm the destination, but rather said, “Yes. In the morning, the journey continues.

*****

They rose with the dawn and began to walk through the dense woods, Merlin with his staff in hand, Morgana with the sword. Eventually, they came to a small clearing and Merlin stopped, looking at the sky and muttering to himself. 

Do you even know where we’re going?” Morgana demanded. 

He turned to her. “Give me your hands,” he said. 

Morgana did as he said and the moment they touched, a circle of blue light formed around them. “What’s happening?” she asked. 

“Any place you can conjure from memory is within your reach,” Merlin said. The light around them grew brighter and Morgana watched as it spread to Merlin’s eyes, filling them with a sapphire glow. 

“Then you’ve been there before? To Glastonbury?”

“A long time ago, yes.” The blue light was obliterating the trees around them now and Morgana felt the ground begin to shake. She held tighter to Merlin’s hands. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. 

The memory of him moving inside her, and the world moving with them, brought gold sparks to Morgana’s eyes. “I’m not,” she replied. 

She felt the weight of the sword on her back and the grip of the wizard’s hands on hers. Gold light mixed with blue until there was no more sun, no earth, no sky, no air, nothing at all in the space where they had been. There was a blinding flash and the roar of magic bending time, and then there was only an empty clearing in the woods, quiet and undisturbed, not even footprints in the dirt to suggest anyone had been there at all. 


	2. The Widow & The Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains F/F sex.

When Morgana opened her eyes, she saw only clear, cloudless blue sky. She sat up, and found herself in tall grass, lush and green, and filled with wildflowers. She could hear the call of birds and somewhere nearby, the lapping of water. She followed the sound, through the grass, along a path, into a grove of fruit trees. What she saw on the other side took her breath away.  A sparkling lake stretched out in front of her, no land on any side as far as she could see. Merlin was at the water’s edge, skipping stones along the gentle waves. A small boat floated nearby, tethered to a rock by a bit of fraying rope. 

Merlin turned at her approach. “Welcome to Glastonbury,” he said. 

Morgana looked around. It was not quite what she had expected. There was no sign of Arthur - or anyone else for that matter - anywhere near. She nodded at the boat. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Not we,” Merlin said. “You.” He waded into the water and untied the boat, holding it steady. “Get in.”

“This is madness!” Morgana told him, but even as she protested, she was giving him her hand and hoisting her robe up to clamber into her questionable transport. “Where do you expect me to go? There’s…” she waved her arms at the expanse of water. “... Nothing!” 

“Keep looking,” he said and pressed the oar into her hands.

Suddenly unsure, Morgana looked at him. “You won’t come with me?”

He gave her a small, sad smile. “I can go with you no further,” he said. “But if you find your friend, send my love.”

Morgana had no time to puzzle over the meaning of Merlin’s words, as he heaved the boat into the water and sent it adrift. She paddled for a time, but with no sense of where she was going, she soon felt that she was traveling in circles. The boat floated further and further from the shore, until even that disappeared into the mist rising from the water. Morgana called upon her spells to clear the mist, to ask the water to guide her to safe harbour, but nothing worked as it should. There was magic in the air, she was sure of that, but she was not its mistress here. Here, it answered to someone else. 

Out of ideas, Morgana set the oar down and leaned back in the bottom of the boat. She closed her eyes and opened her mind to what memories her body chose. It was Celia, of course, always Celia first, Celia’s sweet kiss and stifled cries when Morgana’s tongue between her legs had driven her to wildness. But then it was Merlin too, Merlin’s voice and hands and hardness, the demands of his mouth and the promises of his fingers buried inside her. And then it was both of them together, her body pressed between them, both of them touching her at once, even as she touched herself, urging her towards climax.  Morgana came with a sharp cry, her golden eyes flying open as the pleasure washed over her in a wave of pure sensation. She blinked rapidly in the bright sunshine, not quite believing what she saw. On the other side of the mist, rising from the water, was an island. It was impossible to miss, how had she not seen it before? As the boat drew closer, Morgana could see rolling green hills and rocky cliffs, a sandy shore straight ahead. At its highest point, Morgana saw a stone building - a fortress, or perhaps a temple. A single green flag flew from its tallest tower, a flag bearing an old fey symbol. Morgana knew it at once - they had used it to mark the routes safe for fey smugglers to use, hiding it in the trees and on the rocks, making sure that those who knew how to look would never be lost. It was the symbol for home. 

As the boat cleared the mist, Morgana saw a figure at the edge of the lake, a woman in a white gown. She sat up, squinting, and then drew in a long breath of shocked recognition and utter disbelief. It could not be and yet it was.  “Nimue?” she whispered.

She stood too quickly, rocking the boat, but it didn’t matter, because Morgana was in the water, waist deep and wading forward, slipping on mossy rocks, weighed down by her wet robe, her boots, her sword. When the ground turned solid beneath her, she stood and faced her friend.

“Hello, Morgana,” Nimue said. 

“How is this possible?!” Morgana cried, still not quite believing any of it was real. “I saw the arrow hit you, I saw you fall, you could not have survived.” She paused, scrutinizing Nimue more carefully. Was this another trick of the Cailleach? “Are you dead?” she asked. 

Nimue laughed. “No,” she replied. “I’m quite alive.” She moved forward to close the space between them. “Morgana, it’s me. It’s truly me, I swear it.”

“Nimue,” Morgana said again, but tears choked the name she meant to speak. Relief and joy and love mixed with weeks of pent up grief and guilt hit Morgana all at the same time and she threw herself at Nimue with a sob, crushing her friend in an embrace that would never be tight enough. 

Nimue hugged her back, warm and real and alive in her arms. Morgana half expected a spider to crawl from Nimue’s ear, or else the Widow to appear, or to wake from what surely must be a dream, but no such things happened. When Morgana regained control of herself, she released Nimue, but not entirely. It seemed too likely that she could disappear at any moment. With Nimue’s hands still clasped in hers, Morgana said, “I don’t understand how this is possible. How did you come to be here?” 

Nimue smiled. “That is a story best told by a fire,” she said. “Come - get warm and dry. Then, we can talk.”

Still holding her hand, Nimue led Morgana up the beach, and over a grassy knoll. In the valley below, Morgana saw a village - hundreds of straw huts radiating out from a circular stone building, a mill and storehouses beyond, and further back still, mountains rising into the sky. Morgana could hear music playing and could see that the village was full of people, going about everyday tasks. Then she looked more carefully. Not just any people, she realized. Fey. 

A whistle in a nearby tree caught both of their attention. Morgana looked for a bird, but saw nothing. Nimue smiled at the tree and said, “Peter Bluewing, I see you up there. Staying out of trouble today, I hope.” 

Morgana gasped as a boy, no bigger than a thimble, with translucent blue wings, landed on Nimue’s shoulder. His skin was darker than Morgana’s, but his eyes matched his wings. His hair was twisted into knots and he wore only a pair of tattered shorts. “I never look for trouble, Lady,” the boy said, “but somehow, it always finds me!” He regarded Morgana with curiosity. “Who’s this?” he asked. 

Nimue placed a finger on her shoulder and the boy hopped alight. Bringing him to face level, she said, “Go and tell the others my friend has arrived. Be quick!”

He sighed but said, “Yes, Lady.” Morgana lost track of him for a moment, but then he was hovering in the air right in front of her. “Your friend’s very pretty,” he said to Nimue. 

“Go!” she said in reply and with a grin, he was gone. 

Morgana knew there were many races of fey - skyfolk, elkfolk, snakefolk, sandfolk - too many to name. Their numbers were all dwindling, hunted as they had been for so long, although never with the tenacious, vicious fury of Father Carden and his red paladins. Morgana had also read about the fey of old, those who had been there when the world was new, but had died out long ago - the merfolk, the elvenfolk, and, inexplicably, the kind of tiny, winged creature who had just called her pretty - the fairyfolk. 

From the hilltop above, a bell rang in the tower. Nimue looked up towards the sound, but Morgana was looking at Nimue, her face in profile. Nimue had always been beautiful, but she was more than that now, Morgana realized. She was lustrous. Behind her, the trees, the grass, the sky, all seemed to shimmer faintly and Morgana suddenly understood that it was not that there was magic in the air here, but that the air itself, like Merlin’s lemon cakes and coffee, was made of magic. “Nimue,” Morgana asked, “what is this place?” 

Nimue laced her fingers through Morgana’s as they looked at the valley below. “This is Avalon,” she said. 

*****

Nimue led Morgana through the village and into the circular stone structure at its centre. It seemed to Morgana half-built - open arches where there should have been walls, rooms left undivided and seemingly without purpose, everywhere grass and moss and creeping ivy finding its way between the stones, making the indoors and the outdoors one. There were endless spiraling corridors, each one leading to its own set of rooms, all rooms connected in some way to the open air. Morgana thought again of Gremaire, of her uncle’s castle, dark and austere, meant to protect its Lord at every turn with bolted doors and iron gates. As Nimue turned a corner and pushed aside a muslin curtain to reveal a large, bright room, with a mural of roses painted across the wall, and in place of a ceiling, a round window to the sky, Morgana knew this place had not been built for any Lord. It was made for a Lady. 

From a wooden armoire against the wall, Nimue pulled a simple white gown and lay it out on the four-posted bed. Morgana came to stand next to her. “Is this yours?” she asked, running her fingers along the soft fabric of the dress and then looking around the room. “Is… all of this yours?”

“It’s ours,” Nimue replied. “All of us who live here. Now - off with those wet things.”

Morgana paused and then took the sword from her back. She held it out to Nimue. “This belongs to you,” she said. 

Nimue shook her head. “I gave it to you.” They stood there, staring at each other, neither saying a word. At last, Nimue took the sword and put it aside. “It’s good you brought it here,” she said. “It will be safe until the king needs it by his side.”

Morgana turned to her in surprise. “The king!” she exclaimed. “You would return the sword of power to Uther Pendragon? An imposter and a coward who lets the church slaughter the fey with impunity?”

“Not Uther,” Nimue said. “Arthur.”

Morgana blinked. “Arthur?”

From the tower, the bells sounded again and Nimue frowned. “The council will want to meet, now that you’re here,” she said. She handed Morgana the white dress. “Get changed and I’ll explain what I can in the time that we have.” Morgana hesitated. She had worn nothing but the black robe bestowed on her by the Widow since she and the bearer of death had merged into one. As if sensing her thoughts, Morgana said, “Don’t worry. We have no need of the Widow here.” Then she disappeared through the arch on the other side of the room. 

Morgana exchanged black robe for white gown and instantly felt a weight lifted. She followed Nimue into the antechamber, where a fire had been lit in the grate and Nimue was pouring tea. She offered Morgana one of the steaming stone cups and then sat down on the thick bearskin rug by the fire. With tea in hand, Morgana lowered herself onto the rug as well, absently stroking the soft fur, but stopped short when the rug rumbled in response.  Nimue laughed, running her fingers through the fur. “She was a lovely old bear. We released her spirit when she was ready to go, but she still loves a good rub, wherever she is now.”

Morgana laughed too because what else was there to do when a rug radiated contentment so? She watched the shadows from the fire dancing across Nimue’s strong features and her long, burnished oak hair shining in its glow. ‘I still can’t believe you’re alive,” she said softly. 

“I know,” Nimue replied. “By all rights, I shouldn’t be here. Any fool knows you run away from someone shooting arrows at you, not towards them. But when I saw Iris on that bridge, I knew what she was, and what she was capable of. All I could think was that if I didn’t stop her, she would kill so many more of us. But then I was falling, I was falling and I was so afraid.” Nimue took a breath and continued, “You have to understand, Morgana, my body was so broken by then, there was no saving it, not as it was, anyway. The water sprites brought me here, to the lake, and the merfolk saved me. They have old magic, access to power lost to the fey of our world. But nothing comes without a cost.” Nimue paused, then said, “I am bound to the lake and to this place. I can never return to the shores beyond the mist.” Nimue stopped to let Morgana process her story thus far and they sipped their tea in silence. Then she said, “I am told there were once many islands like Avalon, and men and fey traveled freely between them, but then the men became greedy and the church raised its sword against our kind. These places are not meant to withstand war. The destruction of the land, the suffering of the fey whose collective magic binds it and makes it real - over time, these have destroyed our safe havens. Now, Avalon is all we have left.”

“How do you know they won’t come for you here as well?” Morgana asked. 

“We have our defenses,” Nimue replied. “The mist for one - it conceals this place from human eyes and can only be cleared with magic.”

“You’re entrusting the lives of the fey who live here to… mist?” Morgana was dubious. 

“There’s also the lake itself. It only grants safe passage to fey.” With an incline of her head, Nimue smiled and said, “Well, fey and friend.”

A realization hit Morgana. “It was you,” she said. “On the lake, blocking my spells. The lake belongs to you.”

Before Nimue could answer, a small voice interrupted their conversation. A girl peeked through the arch and Morgana gasped at the dark streaks on the girl’s face. She had only seen such markings on one other, one who it was said cried tears of blood, a rare and powerful kind of stigmata. But this child was no weeping demon-saint. 

“Pardon, my Lady,” the girl said, “but they’re gathering now. They bid me tell you to come.”

“Thank you, Lena,” Nimue replied. “Run ahead and tell them we follow.”  Casting a shy glance at Morgana, the girl curtsied and fled, quick as the wind.  Nimue rose from the ground and extended a hand to Morgana to help her up, but even when she was upright, Nimue did not let her go. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Morgana,” Nimue said. “When I first came here and understood who I am now - what I am - I had to accept that I would never see those I loved again. Not you, not Arthur, not Squirrel. And I missed you all so much - I think I even missed Merlin! I know that Avalon is my destiny, but it has been a lonely watch to keep.”

Morgana drew Nimue into a hug and held her there, but at the mention of Merlin’s name, she suddenly recalled the wizard’s last words to her.  _ If you find your friend, send my love.  _ He must have known that Nimue was alive! A cold fury settled over Morgana as she mulled over the thought. He must have known and never said a word, letting her sob herself to sleep so many nights, racked with guilt, reeling from a loss too profound to name.  _ If I ever see that bastard again,  _ Morgana thought,  _ I’m conjuring lightning to fry his cock.  _ “Merlin sends his love,” she muttered. 

“I’m glad you two found each other,” Nimue replied. Morgana felt heat creeping into her face, but said nothing. “Come,” Nimue told her, “now that you’re here, it’s time we told the council of our plans.”

“Our plans?” Morgana repeated, following Nimue out of the room, back into the winding corridor. “What plans might those be?”

“Save the fey,” Nimue said. “And steal the crown too.”

****

Morgana had expected a throne room, or perhaps a chamber where the council might meet around a long table. She had not expected a hike up a mountainside.  Nor had she expected a sheer rock face with water cascading down, not so much a waterfall as a stream that tumbled over the edge of the cliff to flow gently into the pool below. Around the pool, were twelve chairs carved from stone, two of them half submerged within the pool itself. Morgana looked around the circle. There were two elvenfolk with long white hair and pointed ears, two merfolk with their shimmering tails in the pool, one snakefolk with her scaly, green skin shining in the sun, one elkfolk with majestic antlers curving up from a tanned and bearded face, one birdfolk stretching her silver-grey wings, two fey deep in conversation who Morgana recognized as forestfolk and sandfolk by their distinctive braids and the talismans they wore, and one fey who bore the same dark streaks down her weathered face as the little girl and the weeping monk. Nimue took her place in the circle, leaving two chairs seemingly empty, but as Morgana looked again, she saw the flutter of wings between them and then each of the two fairyfolk settle into the remaining spots. Morgana stood just behind Nimue, aware that she was the focus of many stares, not all of which felt entirely friendly. 

The elvenfolk elder cleared his throat. “If everyone is ready to proceed, I call this meeting of the Council of Avalon to order.” There were murmurs of agreement around the circle and the elder continued, “Let’s not waste time with trivial things today.” He turned to Nimue. “Does the Lady of the Lake wish to speak?”

“I do,” Nimue said. “You all know the plight of the fey beyond our shores grows worse everyday. They have been driven out everywhere they go, their homes burned down, their children murdered. We can no longer hide in the mist, turning a blind eye to their suffering. And now we don’t have to.” Nimue reached for Morgana’s hand, curled on the back of her chair. “This is Morgana. She has helped to lead the fey resistance for years and has saved countless fey lives. She is also a skilled sorceress and a trustworthy friend. She is not bound to this place, as we are, but remains free to move between our world and theirs. I believe she is the key to saving the fey.”

“She’s cursed,” the woman with the streaked face said, glaring at Morgana. “She reeks of death. You should not have brought her here.”

“That’s very easy for you to say,” the snakefolk woman snapped. “It’s not the ashfolk being tortured by the devils in red, is it?”

“There are no ashfolk left to save, so you would let the rest of the fey rot.” It was the forestfolk woman who spoke, her onyx eyes flashing with rage. 

“She’s not entirely wrong,” the elkfolk man said. “Many of my kin remain on the other side of the lake and their prayers plague my dreams. But elkfolk have been betrayed by humanfolk time and time again. I appreciate that the Lady of the Lake trusts this Morgana, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us can.”

“There is darkness in her magic,” one of the fairyfolk said. 

“And goodness too,” the other chimed in. “This magic is new, only just born…”

“... And yet is very old. Very strange, very strange to be both at once. Something strange afoot here, something strange…

“... And something familiar. Or… someone.”

“Sorcery is an old art,” the elvenfolk woman said, the first to address Morgana directly, her tone calm and kind. “My sight into the human world is not as good as it once was, but from what I can see, there aren’t many who practice magic left - not with the skill it takes to clear the mist anyway.”

“How did you gain your powers, Morgana of the humanfolk?” Morgana started at the deep, commanding voice of the merfolk man who spoke to her from the pool.

“I…” Morgana faltered, not sure what to say, but Nimue came to her rescue.

“She is an apprentice of my father… who, no doubt, is known to many of you. Merlin the Magician.”

At the mention of Merlin’s name, the circle erupted in shaking heads and rolling eyes, a chorus of “Charlatan!” and “Donkey’s ass!” and knowing looks passed back and forth. 

“Which of us has not been double-crossed by Merlin?” the birdfolk woman said, spitting out the wizard’s name as if it tasted sour. “If there is trickery or treachery at work here, we should have known he was involved.”

The sandfolk woman shook her head. “I bear the magician no love either, but will we allow the grudges of a thousand human years to condemn our kind - all of our kind - to death?”

“Morgana could not have crossed the lake on her own,” said Nimue. “It is hers and Merlin’s magic combined that holds the door between worlds open.”

“A door that has remained closed for good reason,” the ashfolk woman said. 

Ignoring her, Morgana continued, “It is not Merlin alone who helps her. She is aided by many forces, and by the lake itself. Listen to the Hidden. Avalon wants her here.”

Around the circle, fey shifted in their seats and uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Whatever their other objections, they all felt the truth in what Nimue had said. “I ask this council to grant Morgana permission to pass through the mist, to find our fey brothers and sisters, and to bring them here.” Nimue looked at each of them. “To bring them home.”

There was silence. And then the merfolk woman asked Morgana, “And you have set yourself to this task? Knowing the risk? Knowing that we cannot help you should you fall?”

“You may have cast your lot in with us, but you are not one of us,” the birdfolk woman said. 

Morgana stepped forward so that she stood at Nimue’s side. “I believe our world should be safe for everyone - no matter who you are, or… who you love. I want peace between humans and fey and to see an end to the tyranny of the church once and for all. This is my goal, my only purpose. I swear on my life, I will do everything in my power to bring these things to pass.”

“Ah, but your life is not your own to swear by, is it?” the ashfolk woman asked, her tone cold. 

Morgana felt a prickling at the back of her neck and then a pressure building behind her eyes. She shook her head slightly to clear it and the feeling quickly faded. 

The elvenfolk woman tilted her head. “Not on your own life then, on the boy’s, this… Arthur who sits closest to your heart.”

Morgana frowned and touched a hand to her forehead. She looked at the elvenfolk pair who gazed evenly back. “How did you…?”

“I have a question,” the sandfolk woman interjected. “How is exiling our kind a solution? Don’t the fey have as much right to roam the earth freely as the humans?”

“The world belonged to the fey first,” the forestfolk woman said. She looked pointedly at Morgana when she said, “Perhaps it is the humans who ought to be shipped off to islands in the sea.”

“The only way to ensure peace between humans and fey is to seat a ruler in power who believes in this cause, who will fight for the fey,” Nimue said. “My mother hid the sword of power for many years because she knew the destruction it would wreak in the wrong hands.”

“Like Merlin’s, for example,” the birdfolk woman muttered, ruffling her feathers. 

“Maybe so,” Nimue replied, “but it was still her last wish to return the sword to my father. And through him, it has come to Morgana, and through her, it has come to us. And though us, it must pass to the future king.”

The elvenfolk woman looked from Nimue to Morgana. “This Arthur again,” she said. “Connected to you both, I see.”

“Now you would have us meddle in the politics of humans too?” The elkfolk man shook his antlers. “This is a foolish path to tread. And a dangerous one.”

“We have all felt the return of the sword to Avalon, where it was forged,” the elvenfolk elder said. “You have our thanks, Morgana, for bringing it back to us. But the sword alone cannot make a king. He must have some claim to the throne.”

“He does,” Nimue said. Then a shadow of sadness fell across her face. “He will.”

“Let us put it to a vote,” the elvenfolk woman said. “All those in favor of what the the Lady of the Lake proposes, say aye.”

In chorus, the snakefolk, forestfolk, sandfolk, both merfolk, one of the fairyfolk, and Nimue - the skyfolk - said, “Aye.”

“All opposed, say nay.”

The elkfolk, ashfolk, birdfolk and the other fairyfolk all said, “Nay.”

The elvenfolk, the first creators and oldest inhabitants of their world looked at each other. It was their duty to advise, not to sway the decision of the council. “Then it is decided,” the elder said. 

His companion looked at the sky, and murmured something in a language Morgana had never heard spoken before. She caught the look between elvenfolk and skyfolk and the colour that rose to Nimue’s cheeks as she nodded almost imperceptibly. “The moon shows us her full face tonight before she wanes again.” The elvenfolk woman smiled at Morgana. “It is an auspicious start to your quest.” She stood and addressed the gathered fey. “The elvenfolk dance at sundown. All who wish to dance with us are welcome.”

The elvenfolk elder rose and took her hand. “If all are agreed, let us adjourn.”

The group dispersed, most making their way down the mountainside on foot, some taking to the water, others taking to the sky, until only Morgana and Nimue were left. 

“You did well,” Nimue said, but Morgana’s mind was already racing. 

“Nimue, I don’t know where Arthur is. I don’t know where he’s hidden the fey or how long I have to find them. I don’t even really know how I got here and I certainly don’t know how to get back,” Morgana said. The weight of what she had pledged, the seeming impossibility of it, starting to raise panic in her voice.

Nimue put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and her touch alone was a calming force. A smile spread across her face and something in those dark blue eyes made Morgana’s heart quicken. “We’ll make a plan tomorrow,” Nimue said. “Tonight, we dance.”

*****

As twilight fell over Avalon, Morgana followed Nimue away from the torches and huts of the village, into the open fields. They walked towards a rock formation with a bonfire in the middle, and as they drew closer, Morgana heard the sounds of lute, fiddle and hand drums. There were fey of all sorts singing, dancing, and drinking, their general merrymaking punctuated by occasional praises shouted or chanted or howled at the moon, still half obscured in the darkening sky. Morgana perched on a rock and accepted the cup Nimue put in her hands. She drank, expecting wine, but the liquid was like nothing she had tasted before - sweet on her tongue, but fire in her throat. 

“What is this?” she asked Nimue, but Nimue was looking at the sky and did not answer.  Morgana drank and watched the bodies moving in front of her. The fire seemed to grow brighter and the night darker, like walls around them. Her head felt light, her eyes blurry. Her cup never seemed to run dry. She blinked and the figures before her swirled amid the blowing embers. She blinked again and they swirled still, but they were different now, softer, freer.  _ Naked _ , Morgana realized.  _ They’re naked _ .

A voice in her head, leftover from years at the abbey, squawked at her to show some shame at this wanton display. But the voice was muffled, somewhere far away. What was clear and close and overwhelming her senses was Nimue calling her name, Nimue pulling her onto her feet, Nimue’s bare skin and blue eyes, Nimue’s cheek against her cheek and then, Nimue’s mouth on her mouth. 

It would be a lie to say Morgana had not thought about her friend like this, had not wondered what it would be like to touch her, to know her in the way that was a sin. A memory came, unbidden, of the day at the abbey when Nimue had stumbled upon her and Celia in an embrace, kissing one another just as Nimue kissed her now.

_ You don’t know what I can do to spies,  _ Morgana had threatened, even as her heart had leapt into her throat and her skin had pricked with fear. To be found out meant certain death - or worse. 

_ I won’t tell anyone,  _ Nimue had said.  _ Not because I’m afraid of you, but because you’ve done nothing wrong. _

Morgana looked at Nimue, the moon full and bright behind her. She touched her fingers to soft lips, which parted to kiss each one in turn, to travel from fingertip to palm to wrist. “It’s never been wrong,” Nimue said and Morgana knew the memory had come to her too.  They danced, swaying and kissing, and Morgana became aware of other hands on her body, unlacing and undressing, strong arms supporting her as she felt herself lowered to the ground. There were beautiful faces everywhere, smiling, seeking her mouth, the silk of long braids sweeping her breasts, the flutter of wings between her thighs. The desire ran hot in her blood, the pleasure coming in gold-tinted waves. “Take what is offered,” Nimue’s voice said, the words not spoken but delivered on the night breeze. 

And so Morgana surrendered herself to the moonlight; to memories of places she had never been and spells not found in any book, to magic flowing through her, given freely from a multitude of eyes and hands and lips, each whisper building her power, each caress a new gift. There were cries around her, some high and sweet, and some low and rhythmic, almost a chant in time with the beating of her heart. She was opened with care, penetrated with shafts of colour and light, everything around her fragrant earth and the heat of bodies in motion and fire combined. She was one with all of them, and with Avalon itself. 

It was Nimue who came to her last, when she lay breathless and wet and nearly spent in the grass. Her eyes were closed but she knew it was Nimue by the way the air was different when the Wolf Blood Witch breathed it in and out. She turned her face into a ready kiss and molded her body to the curve of pink-tipped breast and rolling hip. With one arm around her, palm pressed to her back, Nimue began a gentle exploration of her cunt. Morgana found her waiting mouth, then trailed kisses down her neck, sucking at the soft flesh, breathing her in, breathing it all in. 

“My gift to you, Morgana,” Nimue said, her fingers curling, sliding in and out, letting the pleasure build slowly, “is the Hidden.” In her flushed cheeks, green vines began to take shape and glow. They appeared all over Nimue’s body and as Morgana traced their path across Nimue’s skin, she could feel their power pulsing, waiting to be let loose. The blue fire was in Nimue’s eyes, the green vines growing from somewhere within, sky and earth and water contained in one. Gold and blue and green collided as Morgana pressed her legs together, trapping Nimue’s hand inside her, and crying out as she came. The ground rippled beneath them, as the Hidden heeded Nimue’s call and consented to be so offered. 

Morgana’s limbs felt heavy, the air around her thick. She had never known such deep contentment, nor felt with such certainty that everything would be alright, just as it was meant to be. She tried to tell Nimue as much, but the words were muddled, the world falling away, until all that was left was the moon and Nimue’s voice. 

“Sleep, Morgana of the humanfolk,” Nimue said. “And when you rise, rise as Morgana of the Fey.”


	3. The Witch & The Weeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains M/F sex, self-harm, and descriptions of past abuse.

The days following Morgana’s departure from Avalon passed like dripping molasses for Nimue - painfully slow. She had no sight, no connection to anything beyond the lake and she felt she might go mad for want of knowing what was happening in the world. She remembered with irony her desperation in another life to board a ship and sail away. She would have gone anywhere, searching for somewhere she belonged. And now that she had found just such a place, she would have done anything to go back. 

Avalon was beautiful, peaceful, and had no shortage of delights to choose from. The fey were master architects of pleasure in all its forms. Nimue allowed herself to indulge and explore, but at night, it was still Arthur who she met in dreams. She walked along the water’s edge and thought again of Morgana’s words before she left. “What should I tell Arthur when I find him - about you?” she had asked.

“Tell him what happened on the bridge. Tell him I’m dead.” It had broken Nimue’s heart to say it, but she knew it was the only way for Arthur to move on. If he so much as suspected she might be alive, he would never stop searching for her, never let her go. His heart had to be free to love another, not only because it was his right, but because it was his destiny. It was his only way to the throne. 

Nimue knew all this and accepted it, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. And so she filled her days with distractions - teaching lessons, gathering food, weaving, washing, writing, swimming, watching the sun set over the lake, before falling into restless sleep that never left her feeling rested. 

It was mid-afternoon and Nimue was picking blackberries in the grove, when a familiar whistle caught her attention. She looked around, but saw nothing. With a smile, she carefully pulled apart a single berry and placed one round morsel, the size of a sesame seed, on the tip of her finger, and held the finger out. Within seconds, young Peter Bluewing appeared, snatched the food and stuffed it in his mouth. Wiping juice from his face with the back of his hand, he sat on Nimue’s knuckle, swinging his legs. “There’s a boat crossing the lake,” he said. 

Nimue shook her head at him. “You’ve been warned about telling tales, young man,” she scolded, but her voice was warm, no real anger in it. She knew very well that if anything made but a ripple in her lake, she would sense it. 

The fairyfolk boy stood up, indignant. “I am not telling tales, there really is a boat crossing the lake! I only wanted to know, is it your pretty friend coming back?”

Nimue frowned and focused her energy. At first she saw nothing in her mind’s eye, felt nothing, and was about to chastise Peter again, but then the mist shifted and to Nimue’s shock, the rickety wooden boat appeared. It was a good distance away yet, but still too close to Avalon’s shore for comfort. She couldn’t make out the hooded figure rowing it, but she knew at once, it was not Morgana. The claws of an old fear hooked themselves into her heart and Nimue felt her magic rising to the surface, showing itself in the vines that glowed beneath her skin. Her instinct was to run. Or else, to reach for the sword.

“Are you alright, Lady?”  Peter’s small voice broke Nimue’s trance. 

She took a breath and forced a smile. “What a clever thing you are,” she told the boy. “You must have the sharpest eyes in all of Avalon. But, whoever our visitor is, they must be shy because I don’t think they meant for anyone to know they were coming.” Nimue lifted her finger so that the fairyfolk child was level with her eyes. “So, just for now, let’s not tell anyone else about the boat. Can you keep a secret?”

The boy’s blue eyes shone as he nodded eagerly, proud to be entrusted with a secret of his own. Nimue dropped the remaining blackberry bits on the ground and set Peter down to eat them. Then she stood and turned towards the lake. She reached out for the mist, calling it to rise and thicken, to protect the island from the unknown danger she sensed. But to her surprise, it remained exactly as it was.  Nimue gasped at this gentle but firm rejection of her power. She was reminded of those times as a child, she had called to the Hidden, and they had not come, knowing better than she did when a threat was imagined and when it was real. But she could not ignore the dread the approaching boat stirred in her. Nimue felt her will hardening, blunting her fear with fury, as had so often happened to her before. So many had thought her brave, singing the praises of the Wolf Blood Witch, but really, honestly, she had mostly just been angry. 

_ It’s my lake,  _ Nimue thought.  _ And mist or no mist, anyone who would cross it must answer to me.  _ The boat drew closer and Nimue knew she was running out of time. She turned on her heel and strode towards the water, ready to meet her guest face to face. 

*****

From the shore, Nimue watched the little boat rocking on the water. She beseeched the mist again to close its doors, but it would not and the figure in the boat rowed steadily towards the island. Finally, Nimue had no choice. Speaking through the mist itself, she summoned her most commanding voice, underscored by rolling thunder, to say, “Turn back, traveler. There is nothing beyond the mist for you.”  If the rower heard her, he gave no sign, and continued on his path. Nimue felt fear and frustration beginning to mix and struggled to maintain her calm. “Did you not hear me? Turn back NOW.” Nimue punctuated her last words with a gust of wind that sent water rushing into the bottom of the boat. With a startled cry, a mop of golden hair popped up. 

“Now look what you’ve done!” the boy who had been sleeping in the boat said to his companion with a scowl. “I’m all wet!”

Again, the rower had no response, but even if he had screamed at the top of his lungs, it wouldn’t have mattered. Nimue would not have heard a word he said. She was in shock. In her surprise, she lost her handle on the power that amplified her voice, so that when she spoke next, she sounded simply like herself. “Squirrel?”

The boy looked up, searching the mist. “Nimue?”

All thoughts of safety or duty or prudence vanished from Nimue’s mind. All that mattered was Squirrel. She threw her body into the mist and materialized in front of the boat, her slippered feet standing on the water’s surface as if it was solid ground. 

“Nimue!” Squirrel cried, scrambling to the front of the boat, his dirt-smudged face lighting up with joy. “See?” he said to his hooded companion, “I told you she wasn’t dead!” Then he looked at her again, in her billowing white gown, unmoved by the lake lapping at her feet, and frowned. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“No,” Nimue replied. “Although, you’re not the first one to ask.” She crouched down and took his hands. “What are you doing here, Squirrel?” Then she looked past him. “And who is this?”

Squirrel looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s Lancelot. He saved me from the red paladins.”

“I see.” Nimue lifted her chin and spoke to the man. “I’m in your debt, Sir.”

“I’ll collect on that debt now then,” a low voice replied. “Let us pass.” 

Nimue faltered. “I can offer the boy refuge… but you must turn back.” For a long moment, Lancelot said nothing. Then he simply dipped his oar back in the water and began to paddle forward once more. Nimue could have overturned the boat, but love for Squirrel stayed her hand. “There’s nothing for you here, I promise you,” she said. “Whatever you’ve heard, whatever you seek, you won’t find it.”

“I already have.”

Nimue turned and through the clearing mist, they all saw the island, rising from the lake. It should not have been possible. The lake itself should have turned the boat around, the mist shielded Avalon from human eyes. Unless it was not human eyes that were looking. 

“Who are you?” Nimue demanded. 

Lancelot sighed and put down the oar. He stood slowly, firm on his feet despite the rocking of the boat, and pulled back the hood that concealed his face. “You know who I am,” he said. 

Nimue recoiled, instantly assailed by the terror she could not help but feel at the sight of the face before her. He had been there when her village had burned. And again at the abbey, when she had come so close to being caught. And again at the mill, when she had conjured a smoke storm to save those she loved. From him. The Weeping Monk. 

By sheer force of will, Nimue pulled the Hidden from the depths and within seconds, ropes of seaweed were snaking their way into the boat, wrapping around Lancelot’s legs, up, around his torso, over his shoulders, and then, around his neck. Lancelot tore at the seaweed with both hands, just barely holding the wet noose at bay. Nimue watched in disbelief as the hands that gripped the vines began to take on their colour and texture, and matching them in strength and magic alike, slowly loosened their hold until they fell away. 

There were no words for a betrayal like this. Staring at him straight on for the first time, a realization hit Nimue. She didn’t want to believe it, but suddenly, it was all too clear. “You’re ashfolk,” she whispered. The truth had been there on his face all along.

At the mention of his kind, Lancelot clenched his fists at his side and averted his gaze.  _ He’s ashamed _ , Nimue realized.  _ He’s ashamed of what he is.  _ But when he looked back up at her with eyes that shone cerulean blue, she knew that shame had not dulled the blade of his will. That, it seemed, remained just as sharp as hers. “My name was - is - Lancelot of the ashfolk. And I would claim my birthright. Safe passage to Avalon.”

“What do you know of Avalon?” Nimue retorted. It was too much to process. How could this vile, treacherous murderer be of the island? How could the Weeping Monk be fey?

Lancelot looked beyond her, to the island whose shores were now within easy reach. No one rowed the boat, and yet, the boat still moved, pushed forward by the lake, pulled in by the land. “I was born there,” he said softly. Then his expression hardened and Nimue followed his gaze to the row of figures waiting, two with bows drawn. Peter Bluewing, it turned out, could not keep a secret after all, and for once, Nimue was glad for it. 

“You said we’d be safe here!” It was Squirrel’s voice directed accusingly at Lancelot, as he too saw what awaited them on the shore. 

“You will be, Squirrel, I promise,” Nimue replied. 

“What about him?” Squirrel cast a glance at Lancelot. “He did save my life and all. And he’s been hiding us! Even though he’s still all cut up from the men in gold masks. Won’t even see a healer, he won’t!” But there was no time for further discussion. The boat ran up against sand and rock and Nimue helped the boy out, gathering him up in her arms. 

Lancelot jumped down after and surveyed the scene before him. Two elvenfolk, two giant elkfolk, and two forestfolk with their bows at the ready and trained steadily on him. And behind all of them, a face that made his breath catch in his throat. A face that looked like his. The old ashfolk woman returned his stare, eyes wide, shaking hands covering her mouth. There may have been tears mingled with the streaks of ash running down her cheeks, but he couldn’t say for sure. 

“Welcome, brother,” the elvenfolk elder said. 

“Another friend of yours?” his companion asked Nimue. 

“No,” Nimue said. “He is no friend of mine, nor is he a friend to the fey.”

The elvenfolk woman stepped forward and peered closely at Lancelot. He drew in his breath sharply at the sudden pressure behind his eyes, as if someone had placed his head in a vice. He fought it, but that only turned the pressure into crippling, blinding pain. He fell to his knees with his head in his hands. Then there was the cool touch of long fingers on his forehead, taking the pain away. He stopped fighting. 

After a few moments, the elvenfolk woman stroked his cheek and there was something so gentle in it, that Lancelot had to choke back a sob. He had so rarely in his life been touched with kindness. “Born in the dawn…” she murmured. 

He met her silver eyes. “... To pass in the twilight.”

She stepped back. “He is one of ours,” she said. 

“One of ours or not, I have seen his face in the nightmares of my kin,” one of the elkfolk said. “They call him the Weeping Monk. He has committed unspeakable crimes against our kind, against his own kind, which makes him doubly damned.”

“And what of the unspeakable crimes that have been committed against him?” the elvenfolk woman asked. 

The elkfolk looked at one another and then the second one replied, “We don’t know anything about that, but we do know he must be held accountable for what he has done.”

A breeze swept across the beach, bringing a sound with it. It was not a sound known to human ears, but something between the call of a bird and the toll of a bell, mixed with the rustling of the trees and the rhythm of the water meeting the rocks. It was the sound of a shimmer and all who were gathered heard it reverberating in their bones. 

The forestfolk woman lowered her bow. “Avalon demands justice,” she said solemnly. 

To all of their surprise, the elvenfolk woman laughed. “My dear girl,” she said, “Avalon has seen far worse than this wretched thing. She demands nothing of him because he has nothing to give. She seeks only to do what she would do for any of her children who returned home broken and wounded, as he is. Avalon will make him whole.”

Her companion sighed, taking in the stony faces of the others assembled. “We will call a meeting of the council to determine how best to proceed. In the meantime, take him to the tower. Let him rest.”

The two elkfolk came forward to haul Lancelot to his feet and Nimue caught the wince that crossed his face as they did. His eyes met hers for only a moment as they passed, but it was enough to send a jolt of raw force coursing through her body, as if he had reached out and grabbed her with his gaze alone. Nimue tightened her grip on Squirrel and held her ground. She would not be made afraid of him, not again, not here. He had seemed monstrous to her once, but she was not a naive skyfolk girl anymore. She was the Lady of the Lake and she would do what had to be done to protect her people - even if it meant protecting them from one of their own.

*****

Nimue watched the moon move across the night sky. Hour after hour, she tossed in her bed, while through the round window above her, the moon bathed her room in pale, white light and Squirrel slept soundly by her side.  She kept thinking,  _ it doesn’t make sense _ . The Weeping Monk -  _ Lancelot -  _ hated the fey. And yet, he had saved Squirrel’s life. He knew what he was, had known all along. And yet, he still fought for the red paladins. Nimue turned these things over and over in her head, but none of it made any sense at all. 

Sleep was not going to come. She gave up on the effort, and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, found her way into the open air. She looked up towards the tower. A few lanterns still burned in the windows and even in the darkness, she could make out the flag that was visible from every corner of the island.  _ Home _ . 

Nimue wondered if Lancelot slept, or if he too was awake, watching the moon. Maybe there were things that didn’t make sense to him either. 

Nimue turned away from the tower, trying to shut her confused thoughts out. She should go back to bed. She should sleep. And in the morning, the council would decide what to do with him. He was not her concern. She made her way back to her room but the moment she lay down, she heard again the elvenfolk woman’s words.  _ What of the unspeakable crimes that have been committed against him? _

She had to know. 

She put on her shoes and headed back out into the night. But this time, she had the sword with her. 

*****

The trek up the hillside was steep, the path narrow and rocky. When she arrived at the fortress, she found no one manning the doors, no guards, no locked gates. Sometimes Avalon still surprised her with how different it was from the world of men.  She had only been in the building a handful of times. Avalon’s order of priestesses lived here, away from the rest of the fey, communing with the spirits. There were no dungeons, for no fey belonged in cages, so holding her torch high, Nimue climbed the winding stairs, hoping she might sense the Weeping Monk’s presence in one of the many rooms. 

As it turned out, she had no need of intuition to find him. The sound of laughter, followed by a dull thud, and then a groan, drew her to a closed door at the end of a long hallway. She tried the door and it opened. In the sliver of space revealed, she could see only the heavy muscles of a back covered in brown fur, the shadow of antlers moving on the wall. There was another thud and then a wet sputtering. The elkfolk man tasked with escorting Lancelot to the tower moved to pick up a wine bottle on the ground and Nimue gasped at what she saw - the Weeping Monk reduced to a twisted heap on the ground. His wrists were tied with rope and as she watched, he turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood. 

“Where is your god now, monk?” the second of the elkfolk came into view, sneering his question at the man at his feet. He pulled Lancelot up by his dark hair and knelt so that he could look his prisoner in the eyes, although Lancelot could only see out of one. The other was swollen shut. “Let me tell you a secret, boy.  _ We _ are the only gods here.” He drew back a fist, and slammed it into Lancelot’s face. There was a sickening crack, and then blood, so much blood, pouring from Lancelot’s nose. The first of the two elkfolk returned, bottle still in one hand, a knife now gleaming in the other. Nimue could watch no longer. She opened the door fully and stood there, sword on her back, staring at the two startled elkfolk, who simply stared back. 

“My lady,” one of them finally said. “What business are you about here tonight?”

“I would have words with the… with our guest,” Nimue replied. “Alone.” 

The elkfolk looked at each other, reluctant to leave, but neither would deny the Lady of the Lake. As they passed her on their way out, one leaned down to say, “Just words, lady?” He eyed the sword and smiled. “Be wary of him. Strike to kill.”

The door closed behind her and Nimue looked around the room. It was not a prison cell, but it was not far off - a wooden chair and a woven bedroll were the only furnishings. In the corner, a basin of water with a few worn rags over the side. A small fire burning. And a man, under the single window, covered in blood, watching her out of one good eye. 

“I don’t pity you,” she said. “You deserve far worse, for the things you’ve done.”

“I don’t want your pity,” he rasped in response.

“Then what do you want? Why have you come here?”

After a pause, Lancelot said, “The boy. I didn’t know where else to take the boy. You’ll keep him safe?”

Nimue felt her face growing hot. “Of course I’ll keep him safe!”

“Try and do a better job than you were doing before,” he replied. Nimue opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “He shouldn’t have been at the mill. He shouldn’t have been at the camp. You have no idea what they would have done to him.”

“I know exactly what they would have done,” Nimue countered. “Tortured him, beat him, burned him, crucified him, cut him apart bit by bit. Because of you.”

“I never hurt the children.”

“You murder their families! You set fire to their homes, their food.” With every statement, Nimue took a step closer, heard her voice get louder. “You force them into hiding like criminals and for what? For the crime of being born fey. The same crime you are guilty of!”

“I thought I was saving them. Through suffering, we are cleansed.”

“Saving then by slaughtering them? That makes no sense.”

Lancelot laughed, then winced. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He looked away then and Nimue felt as if an invisible door had closed between them. 

“Tell me why. Why did you choose them over us? Over your own kind?”

He was so still, so silent, Nimue wondered if he had even heard. Then he said, “I didn’t choose. I survived.”

It was not an answer to the question, but Nimue sensed he would not say more, not yet. “This is not surviving,” she told him. “They’ll kill you if you stay here. It doesn’t matter what the council says.” Lancelot said nothing. “Maybe it’s what you deserve.” Still, he did not speak and his silence sparked in Nimue an irrational rage. He had no right to his secrets, no right to seek refuge here. He had no right to be beautiful beneath his hood. He had no right to sit there bleeding, so that every instinct she had, as skyfolk, as healer, as fey, said to reach out and help him. Nimue drew the sword from its sheath and pointed it at him. “Maybe I should kill you myself.”

Lancelot looked up at her as best he could, and then slowly, struggling with his bound hands, wheezing with the pain of it, got to his feet. Nimue gripped the sword and fought the urge to shrink back from him. Even weak and wounded, there was power in him yet. His cloak was torn and hung raggedly from his shoulder, his face bruised and bloodied, his tunic stained red. But he stood before her, unflinching. “Do it then, Wolf Blood Witch,” he said. When Nimue didn’t move, he took a step closer, so that the tip of the blade pressed to his heart. “We are abominations in the eyes of God. I tried so hard for so long to be worthy of his love, but I see now that there is no escaping the curse of my blood. So do it. I beg you, do it. Send me to the fires of hell where I belong.” 

It would have been so easy to do as he asked. Nimue could still hear the screams of her people as her village burned. The sword was hot in her hands, feeding off her anger.  _ Vengeance,  _ it whispered. It wanted Lancelot’s life. Nimue wavered. She saw again her father raising the sword in a different time, saw the terrible carnage his righteous wrath had caused. A familiar voice found a way in.  _ You gave the sword to me. Let me be its keeper. Death is who I am now, Nimue. Who are you?  _ It was the voice of a friend. 

Nimue lowered the sword and replaced it with the palm of her hand. Lancelot’s pain instantly swept through her body, as her magic sought its source.  _ It’s too much _ , Nimue thought. There was pain on the surface, yes, the result of being soundly thrashed by the elkfolk, but beneath that, there were other wounds, festering, killing him slowly. And beyond those, a different kind of pain, not the kind that could be healed or extracted, but imprinted on his soul, a part of him forever. How could anyone live in that kind of pain? It was unfathomable. 

Nimue cut the rope binding Lancelot’s wrists and nodded at the bedroll. “Lie down,” she said. 

“You can kill me where I stand, witch,” Lancelot replied. 

Nimue sheathed the sword and removed it from her body. She half expected Lancelot to make a grab for it, but he didn’t even look at it. He was looking at her. “The sword is no longer mine to command,” she said. “If someone else wishes to shed your blood with it, so be it. But it won’t be me. I’m not a witch, nor an abomination as you say. I am Nimue of the skyfolk. I’m a healer. If you lie down, I’ll do what I can to heal you.”

Lancelot didn’t move. “Why would you do that?” 

“It’s who I am,” Nimue replied. 

They stared at each other, until Nimue broke the connection. She knelt by the bedroll and waited, clasping her hands together tightly to keep them from shaking. Slowly, Lancelot shuffled towards her and began to lower himself to the ground. Halfway down, he cried out, catching himself with one hand, while the other clutched at the space between his ribs. Instinct made Nimue reach out to steady him and at the touch of her hands, she felt him tense, expecting an attack. She lowered him the rest of the way so that he lay on his back in front of her, the fearsome Weeping Monk entirely at her mercy. 

Nimue closed her eyes and let her hands hover over his body. The face was an easy fix - the broken nose righting itself, the split lip knitting back together, the swollen eye opening as it healed. She frowned as she sought out his other injuries. “These cuts are deep,” she said. “You should have sought a healer sooner.”

“Couldn’t risk it. You may have killed Father Carden, but he still has spies everywhere.”

She touched his side and he flinched. “There’s a bone cracked here. I can’t heal this. Only time and rest can.”

Lancelot sat up, wincing. He touched his fingers to his face, expecting pain, and finding none. He looked at her, the witch he had pursued with such determination; the key, he had thought, to Father Carden’s love, and perhaps, to God’s. Her eyes were clear, the same bright blue as his own. There was no evil in them. The only true source of darkness in the room was him.

He shifted away from her. “You’ve done enough,” he said. Shame coursed through him, a familiar companion to his heart, but it was mingled now with confusion and something he had never felt before - or felt and always pushed away - remorse. 

Nimue mistook his coldness for the hatred he so clearly felt for the fey, and for her. She stood and retrieved the sword, strapping it again to her back. She turned to leave, torch in hand, but paused in the doorway. “I can make a poultice for your wounds. To help them heal. If the council allows you to stay.”

He said nothing in reply and so Nimue left, closing the door behind her. Faintly, from the other side of the door, she heard a quiet, broken, voice say, “Thank you, Nimue.” She listened harder, and caught the muffled sounds of a man sobbing. 

Nimue’s hand went to the door handle and she very nearly rushed back in to take him in her arms and hold him. It made no sense, but in that moment, all she knew for certain was that Lancelot was a person who very badly needed to be held. A voice in her head made her stop.  _ Remember who he is,  _ it said.  _ Remember what he’s done.  _ Nimue backed away from the door and fled the fortress. She had not found any of the answers for which she had gone looking in the night. Instead, she faced the dawn full of new questions, more conflicted than ever after meeting with the Weeping Monk. 

*****

It was just after sunrise when the council met on the mountainside. There was no conversation among them. They sat in silence around the circle, waiting. They all knew a man’s life was at stake. 

Nimue turned with the others when they heard footsteps on the rocky path. The two forestfolk women who had met Lancelot on the beach with bows drawn, led him now like a mule behind them. His hands had been tied again and Nimue could see that the rope they pulled him by was already starting to cut into his skin. Nevertheless, he looked a sight better than when she had seen him last. He had washed the blood from his face and tunic as best he could and removed the tattered cloak. Without the hood to hide his face, in the bright morning light of the Avalon morning, he appeared to be almost ordinary - until he cast a glance at Nimue and she felt again that jolt, like throwing a lightning bolt with nothing more than a look. 

The forestfolk woman holding Lancelot’s leash, gave him a shove into the centre of the circle. He should have fallen, but somehow, he found his balance and remained upright, eyes fixed on the ground. He was clearly blessed with a heightened surefootedness.  _ It must have made him a difficult opponent to fight,  _ Nimue thought a little bitterly.  _ Imagine if he had been on our side.  _

“Surely we all know why we are gathered,” the elvenkind elder began. “One of our own has returned to Avalon, as is the right of any fey soul who is able to find the way. However, he is charged with bringing violence and suffering to his fellow fey in the world beyond our shores. Now it is put to this council to decide what to do about Lancelot of the ashfolk.”

“It hardly seems necessary to keep him bound for these proceedings,” the elvenfolk woman said mildly. 

“You underestimate him,” the elkfolk man growled. “I’m sure others who have done the same are no longer alive to tell you why that is a mistake.”

“This is a waste of time,” the snakefolk woman hissed. “He has murdered hundreds of our kind, our kin. There is no punishment fit for him other than death.”

“The forestfolk agree,” the forestfolk woman said. 

“As do the sandfolk.”

“As do the birdfolk.”

“As do the elkfolk.”

“I wish to speak.” They all turned to look at the ashfolk woman. “We all believed that the last of the ashfolk outside of Avalon had been killed years ago. The red devils burned all the villages, gathered the ashfolk men, women, and children and burned them alive. Now it seems, one has been spared. But at what cost? To live among creatures so full of cruelty and hate all his life? What chance could he have had to become anything other than a monster like them? They have made him into a weapon against his own kind, twisted his mind to their dark ways. But I cannot believe that actions committed under their influence are a reflection of his true nature.” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over as she said, “He has come home. Now it is his right to stay.”

There were hushed murmurs around the circle. Then the merfolk woman floating in the pool, in her melodious voice said, “It has never been the purpose of this council to act as executioner, no matter what the crime. We resolve disputes as fairly as we can, but to take a life? That has never been our way.”

“Indeed, that is the justice of the humanfolk,” her companion said. “The merfolk would see the boy live.”

“What a precious gift to discover that which you thought forever lost is today found,” one of the fairyfolk said. 

“Whatever his past transgressions, we sense no malice in him now,” the other one added. “The fairyfolk too say let him live.”

With votes even at five on each side, all eyes turned to Nimue. “What says the Lady of the Lake?” the elvenfolk elder asked her. 

Nimue didn’t know what to say. She had not expected to be in this position. In fact, she had secretly hoped the council would agree on what to do and she would not have to say anything at all. The Weeping Monk had been a source of terror to her for so long, but the man who stood before her now seemed a far cry from the murderous monster he had once been. She looked around the circle. He had taken so much from so many. She had seen him kneel at Father Carden’s feet, not some puppet forced to do the will of the church, but a willing servant. If he was allowed to live among them, what certainty did they have that he might not one day turn against them again? Nimue shook her head. She had left violence behind with her old life and had no desire to choose it now, but she saw no other way. She opened her mouth to speak, but another voice interrupted her. 

“Do I get a vote? I’m skyfolk too, you know!”

“Squirrel!” Nimue cried. “I told you to stay in the room until I returned.”

The boy scampered from the shrubs where he had been crouched, to stand in the middle of the circle, in front of Lancelot. “Now look, I know he’s done bad things - a lot of bad things. But he’s done good things too! He saved me, didn’t he? The Green Knight says all fey are brothers. And brothers don’t kill each other.” He looked at Nimue. “Do they?”

At the mention of Gawain, a lump rose in Nimue’s throat and tears sprang to her eyes. She had not allowed herself to think of him, dying in that tent, and her unable to help him, the extent of his injuries overwhelming her power. More than Arthur, who she could not see but who lived, more than Morgana, more than Merlin - losing Gawain perhaps hurt most of all. She thought of his face, of his kindness and his strength. What would he have done if the choice had been put to him? She already knew the answer. 

“No, brothers do not kill each other,” she said. “But Lancelot has broken faith with the fey. I fear for his safety if he stays.”

“It’s true, the ashfolk cannot protect him if  _ others _ seek revenge,” the ashfolk woman said, shooting a hard look across the circle at the elkfolk man, who looked away. 

“What do you suggest?” the elvenfolk elder asked Nimue.

Nimue looked up, towards the tower. “If the High Priestess will extend her hospitality, I propose Lancelot be allowed to stay in the tower. He needs time to heal - from wounds he received protecting a fey child. We can give him that much at least.”

“You invite a murderer to live in our midst,” the snakefolk woman seethed. “How do we know he won’t kill us in our beds?”

Nimue took a breath. “I’ll act as his guard. And - ” She looked to the ashfolk woman. “ - his protector. Should he need one.”

The sandfolk woman shook her head. “Forgive me for saying so Lady, but you are no match for him if he attacks you. The sandfolk and the forestfolk will form a proper guard. We’ll surround the fortress and -“

“No,” Nimue said. "Avalon is not a prison, nor is this man our prisoner.” She looked at the sandfolk woman. “How many people have you actually killed?” she asked. “I’ve killed dozens. I assure you, I can protect myself and all of you.” She shifted her gaze to the elkfolk. “And him, if I have to.” Calling upon her fey queen voice, Nimue said, “I will have the sword of power at my side. And I will have the strength of the Hidden, the knowledge of the skyfolk, and the will of the lake with me. The fairyfolk have said there is no malice in him and I trust their sight, but if he turns against us, I promise you, Lancelot is no match for me.”

The elvenfolk elder stood. “Then it is decided,” he said. “Let us adjourn.”

The circle dispersed, and Nimue sent Squirrel on his way with them, knowing that someone would return the boy safely to the village. As she passed, the elvenfolk woman took Lancelot’s bound wrists in her hands and simply held them for a moment. Then she released them and went on her way, the rope around them vanished into the air. As the others left, there were a good many veiled - and not so veiled - threats and insults muttered in Lancelot’s direction, but throughout it all, he said nothing, looked at no one. The ashfolk woman approached him, and took his face in her hands. “Look at you,” she whispered. “So strong. How did you survive?” Hope lit up her eyes. “Are there others? Other ashfolk still in the world? For so long we thought there were none, but now -“

“There are none.” Lancelot cut her off, his words cold and sharp as a blade falling. “I was the only one spared from the fire. All except me burned. And not a day goes by I don’t wish that I had burned with them.”

The light left the woman’s eyes as she stroked Lancelot’s hair. “My poor boy,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?” She turned to leave, giving Nimue a nod of thanks as she passed. And then it was Nimue and the Weeping Monk alone on the cliff side. 

“Are you hungry?” Nimue asked, suddenly anxious to fill the silence between them. “The baker may have fresh bread this morning, or if not, you can ask for porridge and tea in the tower kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Why… eat?”

He raised his eyes to hers and Nimue felt frozen in place by his stare, his expression unreadable. “Why help me? That’s the second time you’ve saved me. I would not have shown you the same mercy.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“How do you know?” he asked her. “How can you be sure what is right?

After a moment, Nimue replied, “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure. And yet, here we are. So we might as well eat.” Then she turned and headed down the path. 

Lancelot waited, surrounded by stone chairs, the constant trickle of the pool and the call of the birds the only sounds around him. He fully expected an attack - an arrow flying at him, birds descending from the sky to peck at his weeping eyes, the ground itself to open and swallow him whole. In this place, anything felt possible and he could not believe he had simply been allowed to live, not after everything he had done. He breathed deeply, searching the air for the scent of fey nearby, but found nothing there. He searched for fey camouflaged among the rocks, within the water, but there were none. Lancelot came to the startled realization that he was truly alone, neither hunter nor hunted anymore. 

From somewhere down below, Nimue’s voice called, “Are you coming?” 

And slowly, Lancelot of the ashfolk followed the Wolf Blood Witch down a mountain, into a fey village, where they broke bread together, and then up again, the two of them side by side, to a tower at the top of a hill, where for the Weeping Monk, a new life was waiting. 

*****

True to her word, Nimue went in search of the ingredients to make the poultice for Lancelot’s wounds. By the time she had found them, and mixed them, and returned to the fortress, the sun was close to setting. She climbed the stairs and knocked on his door. “Lancelot?” she called, but there was no answer, and when she looked inside, she found the room empty.  A wave of apprehension washed over her. He could have returned to the village. He could be slitting fey throats at this very moment. She had not thought to bring the sword. She had told the council that it would protect her - and them - but in truth, she had not believed he would give her cause to use it. 

Nimue ran down the stairs and in the kitchen, found the novice initiates preparing the evening meal. She knew they didn’t speak, having taken a vow of silence when they entered the tower, but she asked them her question anyway. “Have you seen Lancelot? Have you seen the Weeping Monk?” They only shook their veiled heads and after a sweep of the main floor, Nimue found herself back outside, her mind racing. She would have to get the sword, ring the bell, search the village, warn the others.  _ This is my fault _ , she thought.  _ If he has harmed anyone, their blood is on my hands.  _

Then a sound caught her ear, which had become attuned to the sounds that belonged on the island, and those that did not. This sound - a whistle, a crack, a whimper - definitely did not. 

She followed the noise, along a low, stone wall, to the place where the stones began to crumble, giving way to the white bark of birch trees springing up on all sides. And there among them, was Lancelot on his knees, his back bloody, a switch in his hand. Nimue watched in horror as he swung the switch over his shoulder, striking the flesh, drawing fresh blood. A whistle, a crack, a whimper. 

“Stop!” Nimue cried.

Lancelot turned at her voice. His face was wet with tears and contorted with pain. “Leave me alone,” he answered her. 

He raised the switch again but then Nimue was there beside him, wrestling it from his hand, and flinging it into the woods. “What are you doing?” she asked. She wondered if he hadn’t gone a little mad. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Through mortification of the flesh, we find God. I have to find him. I have to find his light. Or else, I am lost.”

“You’re right,” Nimue replied. “I don’t understand. What kind of god would want you to do this to yourself?”

“It’s what I was taught.”

“Then you were taught lies.” Nimue knelt behind him, surveying his terrible work. Beneath the new cuts, she could see many old scars, criss-crossing his back, speaking of a lifetime of pain and self-hatred. She pulled the poultice from her pouch and scooped some onto her fingers. “Stay still,” she said. “This will sting.”  She set to work pressing the thick, green paste to Lancelot’s wounds, and when she was done, moved to face him. She spread the paste across the poorly stitched gash on his shoulder, and then carefully unwound the bandage wrapped around his torso. He held himself straight and stiff as she touched him, very nearly quivering beneath her hands. If she didn’t know better, Nimue would have said he was afraid. 

With the poultice packed tight to his wounds and the fresh bandages she had brought along applied, Nimue sat back on her heels. “Don’t do that again,” she said. “I don’t know anything about your god, but here, in Avalon, we don’t inflict pain on purpose.” But Lancelot wasn’t listening.

With eyes closed, he took a shuddering breath. “Your scent,” he whispered. “At the abbey, after you slipped through my fingers, I couldn’t get your scent out of my mind. It followed me everywhere, and yet, you were always just beyond my reach.”

“That’s why you were spared, isn’t it?” Nimue said. “They used you to track us, like a dog.”

Lancelot paused, then said. “I was just a boy when they came for us, smaller than your pet squirrel. They held my feet to the flames and I screamed for my mother. I knew she was near - even through the smoke, I could smell her. And when I drew her out, they killed her. Burned her alive. Made me watch. Once Father Carden knew what I could do, he saved me. In body and soul. He gave me a new name, a story the church could sell. So long as I remained useful. He forged me into a shining sword to cleanse the earth of my own kind. And with every fey life I took, I believed I was doing what was right. I believed I was that much closer.”

“Closer to what?”

“To salvation. But then… your Green Knight discovered my secret. He could have bartered with that information, used it to try and save his own life, or at least, to jeopardize mine. But he never said a word. It doesn’t make sense - if he was evil, demon-born, why would he protect me? When the Trinity Guard had me surrounded, I was ready to die. I deserved to die. But your Squirrel appeared out of nowhere, hurling stones and challenges twice his size. Can you imagine? A boy, a fey boy, with the courage to take on the Trinity Guard? For me.” Lancelot looked at Nimue then. “And you. The Wolf Blood Witch. Father Carden told us you were the worst of them, that you would use the sword of power to destroy all that was good and pure in the world… but you are good and pure. I feel it. And if Father Carden was wrong about you, what if he was wrong about all of it? What if I was wrong? What if it was all... for nothing?” Lancelot’s face crumpled and he buried it in his hands. 

Nimue wanted to reach for him, but again, she hesitated. She still felt something wild in him, and something hurt. And wild things who are badly hurt are the most dangerous things of all. She sat quietly in the grass, a witness to his pain. She could not assuage his guilt, nor soothe his troubled soul, but she could stay, so at least he would not walk his dark path alone. She listened to him sob. She listened to him curse Father Carden and rail against his god. She listened to him beg for forgiveness. She watched him grasp at the earth in desperation and saw his hands take on the shades of green and brown and grey that he touched. She watched him cry until he had no tears left, and sat hugging his leather-clad knees in the dirt, as the sun disappeared into the lake behind them. 

When he spoke again, his voice was raw and quiet, steadier than it had been before, but full of sorrow. “I spent so long trying to be something I can never be. I can’t go back to being a monk, but I don’t know how to be fey. Where does that leave me?”

Nimue heard the hopelessness creeping into his words and said firmly, “It leaves you where you are meant to be. Here, in Avalon. As for being fey, that’s in your blood. But if you want to know about your people, this place, its history, well… I can teach you that.” She stood up and finally extended a hand to him. “You might find you’re not so lost after all. Not anymore.”

Lancelot took the hand offered and let her pull him to his feet. In the twilight, he noticed she gave off a faint glow. Not the light he had been searching for, but a light in the darkness nevertheless. “Oh, I have something for you,” she said. She pulled from her pouch a vial on a cord and held it out to him. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“A little water from the lake,” Nimue replied. “Keep it with you.”

“Why?”

Nimue looked at him. “Just… in case.” she said. 

Lancelot took the vial. There was so much he did not understand - about Avalon, about himself. And about the Wolf Blood Witch. About Nimue. “Thank you,” he said. It felt inadequate but he could think of nothing else to say. His eyes fell on her mouth and for a brief moment, he thought of what it might be like to kiss her. He shut out the sinful desire as quickly as it had arisen, as he had always done when such temptations had plagued him in the past, and took a step back, putting more space between them. “Thank you for everything.”

Nimue also took a step back. “Until tomorrow,” she said. “Sleep well.” She paused, as if not quite sure if she ought to leave him alone, and then turned and left. 

Lancelot watched her go, then gathered leaves and twigs and long grass until he had made a sort of nest amid the birch trees, the forest floor no less comfortable than the floor of his room in the tower above. The moon was a perfect crescent, the stars brighter than he had ever seen them on the other side of the lake. When he lay down, the ground was softer than it should have been, inviting him to sleep. The wounds that had pained him every night for weeks, protesting every time he breathed, had gone quiet. As he closed his eyes, he thought,  _ Maybe she’s right, maybe I am where I’m meant to be. _ One last thought crystallized in Lancelot’s mind before he fell asleep.  _ Maybe I’m finally home.  _

*****

The weeks that followed were the happiest of Lancelot’s life. When he had been a monk, every waking moment of the day and the night, had been devoted to Father Carden’s obsession with ridding the world of the fey. The red paladins wasted no time on prayer, scripture or song - they were soldiers of Christ and for as long as he could remember, Lancelot had been waging their holy war. Life in Avalon was different. The priestesses with whom he shared the tower did not speak, but their silence was not cold. Rather, Lancelot found it a comfort to eat alongside them in the mornings, to carry water from the well, to help tend their gardens, repair their crumbling stone walls, brick by brick. He had spent his years surrounded by men - mostly men who hated or feared him, and who were mean in spirit and tongue alike. It was strange at first to be surrounded now by women and girls, but he soon learned they were not the evil temptresses Father Carden had made them out to be. 

There were many books - most in languages he could not read. But there were also paintings, sculptures, tapestries, beautiful things everywhere. There were charts, following the movement of the stars, and there was music, played on instruments Lancelot had never seen before. Father Carden had told him the fey were no better than animals, their souls unclean. It was only through discipline and doing the Lord’s work that he himself might rise above his own demonic nature. But it had all been lies. Everything he had ever known, all his life, all lies, all along. 

Nimue came most afternoons. Sometimes she brought Squirrel and he drove the High Priestess to exhaustion with his mischief making. Sometimes other fey came with her - ashfolk or elvenfolk or fairyfolk. Those who had been on the island the longest knew its stories the best, and through them, Lancelot learned his people’s legends. He learned about the Hidden - how the thing he had thought a curse and struggled to hide from the world for so long was a part of all things, a part of all fey. He learned the sound of his own laughter. He gave up his black tunic and cloak for the loosely fitted trousers and shirts favoured by the fey and learned to walk barefoot in the grass, sleep naked under the open sky. His tonsured hair grew back and his cuts healed, with Nimue’s care. They spent long hours in the garden or the birch wood, Nimue telling him stories, Lancelot listening, asking questions, enraptured by her words, her voice. 

“I would have payed more attention to my mother’s lessons had I known I would be faced with such an inquisitive pupil one day,” Nimue teased him, as they sat comfortably along the stone wall together. 

Lancelot smiled. “Tell me about her,” he said.

“I feel like there was so much I didn’t know about her. She wanted to protect me and I wanted…” Nimue shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. What about you? Do you remember anything about your mother?”

Lancelot paused, thinking. Then he said, “I remember she was very beautiful and very afraid all the time. I remember her telling me about this place - how she paid a wizard to help her cross the mist, how the lake nearly drowned her but she rowed on, determined to have me in Avalon where she hoped we could be safe.”

“Why did she return?”

“Love,” he replied ruefully. “She missed my father too much, couldn’t bear to be without him. But he would not abandon the ashfolk and she would not abandon me - so, she returned. And I think… I think we were happy, for a time. She used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep at night.” Lancelot closed his eyes, searching his memory. “I wish I could remember the words -“

That’s when Nimue leaned over and kissed him. Startled, Lancelot jerked away and Nimue felt her face grow hot. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Just as she was about to hop down from the wall, Lancelot’s hand closed on top of hers. “Wait,” he said. “Do it again.”

Nimue searched his impossibly blue eyes. “Have you… never been kissed?” He shook his head and Nimue was again reminded what a strange and lonely life the Weeping Monk had lead. She faced him fully and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. “Close your eyes,” she said. When he did, she shifted closer to him, and captured his mouth in a chaste kiss. He kissed her back, more daring than she had expected, even letting his tongue breach her lips. 

“Forgive me,” Lancelot whispered, resting his forehead against hers. Nimue wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to his god. 

She took his face between her hands and said, “There’s nothing to forgive because you’ve done nothing wrong.” They were the same words she had said to Morgana, and for a moment, she felt again that lovely mouth pressed to her neck, saw again that sleek, brown body arched in the moonlight. 

Lancelot’s eyes raked over her face and then further down, to the swell of her breasts at the neckline of her gown. In a low voice, he said, “My thoughts are impure.”

Nimue felt her desire building, even as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Confess them then,” she said. “Isn’t that your way?” She unlaced her gown, letting it fall open to reveal her breasts. “If you want my forgiveness, give me your confession.”

She was teasing him, Lancelot knew, mocking the church. But it was hard to care with her scent all around him, and her body warm in his hands, all willing softness and pulsing heat. “Forgive me, my Lady, for I have sinned,” he said, the words caught between kisses in his mouth. 

Nimue pulled his shirt over his head. “Go on,” she replied, trailing kisses across his chest, making him groan when she caught a nipple beneath her teeth. 

“I’ve had impure thoughts about a woman. I’ve imagined.. doing things to her. Sinful things.”

Nimue had moved to stand in front of him, in the space between his legs. She stroked his hardness through his pants, and let her gown fall to the grass below. “What have you imagined?” she asked him.

He couldn’t take his eyes from her naked body. “Fucking her,” he said. He had thought about it, heard about it, even read about it in books that were forbidden - but now for the first time, he spoke his desire aloud. He knew such relations outside of the holy bond of marriage were not permitted, but then, the rules here in Avalon were different. If there were any rules at all. 

Nimue hooked her fingers into the waist of his pants and looked up at him. “Is that what you want?” she asked. 

He returned her gaze, ash and water catching fire in the space between them.  _ Fuck the rules.  _ “Yes,” he said. 

He lifted his hips and in a swift motion, she had his trousers off and on the ground alongside her gown. She took his cock in her hand, and then, to Lancelot’s shock, in her mouth. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, a pleasure so exquisite, it could not be sustained long. “Nimue, please…” he rasped, not even sure what it was he was asking. 

Nimue released him and moved to lean against the wall, legs spread. With her cheek pressed to the cool stone, she turned to look at him. “Do it,” she said. “I want to feel you inside me.”

Lancelot jumped down and came to stand behind her. He had seen enough animals rutting and crude pictures secretly passed back and forth between his paladin brothers to understand her request. He buried his face for a moment in the silk of her hair, then pushed it aside to kiss the back of her neck. He ran his fingers along the length of her spine and felt her shiver in response. Following the curve of her buttocks, his hand met the curls between her legs, then soft folds, then the slick heat of her passage as he found the way in. She moaned and pushed back on his probing fingers and it was all the encouragement he needed to replace his hand with his cock and push inside her. 

To be joined to another in this way - to be joined to her - it was the most extraordinary thing Lancelot had ever experienced. His body took over, the act itself all instinct, and grasping her hips, he fucked her in the dappled afternoon sunshine. When it was done, they lay together in the grass, Nimue’s head resting on his chest, his fingers combing absently through her hair.  After some time, Nimue asked him, “Was it… alright for you?”

Lancelot laughed. “Alright? Nimue, I didn’t know pleasure like that was possible. I think… it has changed me. You have changed me.” He sighed, sobering, and said, “There was no pleasure without punishment in the world I knew. Once when I was a boy, Father Carden caught me touching myself. He whipped me so badly, I was delirious for days. I bled through my clothes and had to wear them anyway. No one would help me tend the wounds so they became infected and I burned with fever. I thought I was going to die. I lay down in a field, and in my heart, I called out for help. That night, the grass rose up around me and covered me from head to foot and when I woke, I had been healed. I thought it was God’s work, but it wasn’t God who saved me, was it?”

“The Hidden,” Nimue said. “They are capable of such magnificent benevolence. And also, such devastating fury. I suppose in that way, they’re just the same as us.”

“Like the brother who died at the abbey with thorns woven through his flesh? Was that you commanding their fury?”

Nimue sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Your  _ brother  _ tried to rape me,” she said. “I did the same thing you did. I called for help. The shape that help took… that was not my choice.”

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, sitting up as well. “I’m sorry for the things that were done to you. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll never be able to say it enough.”

Nimue looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m sorry too, for the things that were done to you.”

He kissed her again, and again, and again, discovering new ways to make the scent of her arousal stronger each time. He took his time exploring her body, asking what felt good to her and learning for the first time, what felt good to him. It was different, Nimue realized, than being with Arthur, who had lain with many before her and whose touch had been sure at every turn. Lancelot was sure of nothing and even when he took her again, it was a gentle thing, testing, tasting, telling each other when it was too much, and when they wanted more. It was something new for both of them. To Lancelot, it felt like redemption. 

To Nimue, it felt like love. 

*****

The days passed uneventfully, hazy afternoons melting into mellow evenings and moonlit nights. Nimue and Lancelot all but forgot about the world outside of Avalon; all they could think of was being together. In each other, they found an escape from the pain they had known in the past. Here, at last, they had a chance to be happy. Everything was perfect. Until suddenly one night, they were reminded that it was not. 

Nimue woke with a start as cold water splashed across her face. She sat up in her own bed, alone and quite dry, but the water had been real. She knew it. She felt it. She closed her eyes and focused. It was her water, but not hers alone. It was Lancelot’s water too. She thought of the vial he wore around his neck.  _ Keep it with you,  _ she had told him.  _ Just in case. In case you need it. In case you need me.  _ Fear gripped her as she concentrated harder, listening for his voice, for his heartbeat, but all she heard was the rushing of the lake. He was there, close, not in the tower but somewhere near, somewhere cold. And he was soaked through. Nimue followed him, one with the water in the vial, and then one with the lake itself, materializing out of the dark waves at his side, waist deep and plunging forward. 

“Lancelot, stop!” Nimue cried, grabbing his arm, but he kept going, blindly, as if she wasn’t there at all. 

Nimue grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, trying to wake him from his trance. It was then that she saw that his blue eyes had gone dark. They still wept trails of ash, but now were black and unseeing. “Must go back,” he murmured. “Must go back to pay my debts. Must go back. Must go back.” 

Nimue called the lake to push him in the other direction, back towards the shore, but he fought against it -and her - and Nimue felt herself losing control. The water came up in a great wall around them, and then crashed down, pulling Lancelot beneath the surface, down into the lake’s murky depths. She dove after him, struggling to pull him up, struggling to hold the water at bay, as thunder started to rumble and the mist thickened into a dense fog.

Out of the dark, a voice spoke to her. “Let him go, Nimue,” it said. “He has a greater purpose to serve now.”

“He’ll die like this!” Nimue screamed at the sky. “Tell the Widow he is not called yet!”

There was a flash of lightning and Nimue felt the world around her falling away, as she was pulled from the water into the air. She reached out for Lancelot, but it was too late. She was already gone. 

*****

When Nimue opened her eyes, she found herself in a little cottage, sitting by a fire, as if she had simply dozed off and now woke from an unpleasant dream. The woman wearing black in the chair across from her lifted her veil and they stared at each other for a moment, before they both rushed forward to catch one another in an embrace. 

“We don’t have much time,” Morgana said. “You can’t be here. I’m only the messenger, if the Shadowlords find out I’ve meddled…”

“What good will it do to send him back?” Nimue demanded, cutting her off. “He’s safe in Avalon.”

“Nimue,” Morgana said, her voice softening, “you may be his heart, but you are not his destiny. There is a balance to all things. The Shadowlords see to that, just as they always have. Lancelot has a debt to pay and he must return to pay it, or else that darkness in his eyes takes all of him and he is doomed to wander in the shadows forever.” Morgana watched her friend’s face fall and tried to comfort her. “It’s a good thing - a chance to fight for a better future to balance out the sins of his past. He deserves that, doesn’t he?”

Nimue nodded even as she felt tears sting her eyes. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

Morgana frowned, then relented and replied, “Give him the sword of power and send him across the lake in the boat at dawn. Tell him to find the Red Spear.”

“What will you do?”

“Get as many fey as I can through the mist before the war begins.” 

“War,” Nimue repeated softly. In her mind’s eye, she saw the sword dripping with blood, clasped in Lancelot’s hand. It was her mother’s worst fears come true. 

“You didn’t think we were going to take the crown peacefully, did you?” Morgana said. “This is as it’s meant to be. Lancelot was born for this. Believe me - Merlin doesn’t help anyone out of the goodness of his heart. He has been in league with the Shadowlords much longer than I.”

For a moment, Nimue was confused. Then she remembered what Lancelot had said about his mother -  _ she paid a wizard to help her cross the mist.  _ Nimue sighed. She should have known her father would have had a hand in this. She took a breath and took Morgana’s hands in hers. “Send me back,” she said. 

Morgana brought both hands to her lips and pressed a kiss into each of Nimue’s palms. Then Nimue was in her arms and had found her mouth and Morgana’s eyes flashed with gold sparks as the world around them faded. They made the kiss last for as long as they could, knowing that it very well might be a last kiss goodbye. 

*****

Lancelot and Nimue sat together on the sand, watching the sky lighten as the new dawn broke. Lancelot had said little since Nimue had dragged him from the lake and wrapped him in furs next to the hearth in her room. At some point, she must have fallen asleep, because when she awoke, she found him gone, only a note in his handsome script left behind telling her to meet him here.  She stole a glance at him and found his expression pensive. He had changed back into his black tunic and cloak, and with his hair pulled back and fastened with a band, he reminded Nimue a little too much of the creature he had once been. But then he turned to look at her and his eyes were warm, reflecting the blue of the lake again, and when he pulled her in for a kiss, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Weeping Monk was gone for good. 

“You know I have to go,” he said. 

“I know,” Nimue replied, resting her head on his shoulder. “Just a few more minutes.”

He put his arm around her and they watched the water sparkling in the sun. Eventually Nimue felt him sigh, and she knew she had to let him go. They stood together and Nimue unstrapped the sword from her back. At the water’s edge, she held it out to him. “Take this,” she said. “And find the Red Spear.”

For a moment Lancelot looked as if he might ask her more questions - and in truth, he had so many questions to ask - but, in the end, he simply took the sword and lay it carefully in the bottom of the tethered boat. He looked back at her and like so many times over the past weeks, felt her beauty take his breath away. He took her hands, and tried to find the words to say goodbye.  “Nimue -“ he began, but a rucksack rolling down the beach caught his attention - and the boy running after it, doubly so. 

“Wait!” Squirrel cried, catching up to his pack. “Wait for me, I’m coming with you!”

Lancelot and Nimue looked at the boy and then at each other. Nimue knelt to speak to Squirrel face to face. “How did you know we’d be here?” she asked.

He made a face at her. “I  _ can  _ read, you know,” he replied. “I found your note. Plus I figured we’d be heading back soon. The Green Knight needs us.”

“Oh, Squirrel,” Nimue said. She put her hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Gawain… The Green Knight is dead.”

“No, he isn’t.” Nimue and Squirrel both looked at Lancelot, who continued, “Or at least, he wasn’t last we saw him. On the road to Glastonbury, we very nearly ran right into Uther’s caravan, and he was there, among the fey prisoners. Without Father Carden to force his hand, I doubt Uther has the conviction to put any of them to death. He’s likely still in the dungeons at Tintagel. I’m sure Uther’s hospitality leaves something to be desired, but in any case, he lives.”

Nimue shook her head, desperate to believe but scared to hope. “How can it be true?” she whispered. “I saw him, he could not have survived what they did to him… could he?”

“The Green Knight can do anything,” Squirrel said. “And now that he’s made me a knight too, it’s my duty to go back and rescue him, so we can fight for the fey together.”

The news that Gawain was alive shook Nimue to the core. With him in the world, and Arthur, and Morgana and now, Lancelot too, maybe there was a chance that her dreams of peace might actually come true. She looked up at Lancelot, but he knew what she was going to say before she said it. “I’ll get him out,” he told her. “I owe him that much.”

“What about Squirrel?” Nimue asked. 

Lancelot smiled. “What about him?” he replied. “Percival here is a skyfolk knight. I would be honoured to have him at my side.” Squirrel grinned and giving Nimue a quick hug, splashed into the water and clambered into the boat. Seeing that Nimue was about to protest, Lancelot put a hand on her arm as she stood. “I’ll keep him safe,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose I owe him that too.”

Nimue nodded, not trusting her voice, then wrapped her arms around Lancelot, linking them beneath the cloak, wishing they could have one more day, one more hour together. But it was not to be. Lancelot was called to cross the lake, to fight a new war, and one day, she knew, she hoped, to stand at the side of the future king. 


	4. The Weeper & The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains M/F sex, explicit M/M sex, and descriptions of past abuse

The trek from Glastonbury to Tintagel took the better part of the day, so that when the castle appeared, on the other side of a narrow bridge spanning the chasm between two cliffs, the sun was already on its way down. It would be dark soon. And Lancelot planned to use the night to his advantage. 

He and Squirrel found a small cave nestled in the surrounding hills - the perfect hiding spot for a boy about Squirrel’s size. “Stay here,” Lancelot told him. “If I’m not back by morning, you know what to do.”

Squirrel sighed. “Follow the river, find the rocks with the old symbols and wait for the fey searchers to find me.”

Lancelot nodded. “Good,” he said. “I can trust you to stay, can’t I? I won’t be able to find the Green Knight if I’m worried about you.”

“Why can’t I come with you? I’m good at finding things, I can help!”

“You are helping, Percival,” Lancelot said, unstrapping the sword of power from his back and leaning it on the rock next to the boy. He still carried a dagger in his boot and the cheap steel blade he had picked up from a merchant along the road. And he had his hands. And his wits. And the Hidden. It would be more than enough. “This is in your care until I return.”

Squirrel looked at the sword in awe, then looked back at Lancelot, his small face resolute. “I’ll protect it with my life,” he said. 

“Well,” Lancelot replied, looking at the hills ahead, their outline growing dim as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, “let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

He headed out under cover of darkness, all nimble stealth, moving quickly towards the castle gates. The killing was surprisingly easy. It was what he had been trained to do, but he had wondered if his time in Avalon - with Nimue - might have dulled his skill in combat. When the single guard stationed at the end of the bridge called out, “Halt there!” then drew his sword, Lancelot discovered it had not. If anything, his senses felt sharper, his reflexes faster. He no longer felt like an imposter living in borrowed skin. Accepting his name, his blood, his birthright, had made him stronger, and where he had spent his life before lost and searching, now he saw the path ahead of him clearly. And he was not about to let a few king’s guards get in his way. 

Lancelot slit throats with silent, deadly ease, mastering the element of surprise, disappearing into shadows, and managed to descend into Tintagel’s dungeons unchecked. What he found there made rage and remorse bubble up together inside him - rage for the state of the fey he saw locked in their underground cells, for the fey women and children he saw sleeping in piles of dirty straw like animals. And remorse for the part he had played in putting them there. 

“Now this is a surprise,” a voice said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure, Weeping Monk?”

Lancelot peered into a dark cell. He saw an old man lying on the floor, curled up under a thin blanket, and behind him, against the stone wall, the Green Knight. 

Others started to wake and murmurs spread down the row of cells that became shouts of alarm and warning. The Weeping Monk was a name all fey had come to know and fear.  Lancelot held up his hands. “Please, I mean you no harm.” He took a breath and pulled back the hood of his cloak. Walking slowly between the cells, so that everyone could see his face in the dim light of the lone torch that flickered against the wall, he said, “My name is Lancelot of the ashfolk. I am one of you. And now,” he said, returning to Gawain’s cell, “I would fight alongside you. If you’ll have me.”

Gawain made his way to the iron bars of the cell and searched Lancelot’s face. He was a bigger man than Lancelot, and probably some 15 years older, and under his cool scrutiny, Lancelot felt himself a boy again, waiting to be judged, sure to be found wanting. He forced himself to meet Gawain’s eyes, so like Nimue’s - skyfolk blue. He braced himself for Gawain to spit in his face, which was as much as he deserved, but instead, the Green Knight extended a hand through the bars. “Born in the dawn,” he said. 

Lancelot grasped the hand that was offered. “To pass in the twilight.” 

Gawain nodded and withdrew his hand. “So, what’s the plan, Lancelot of the ashfolk?” he asked. “The door is never unguarded and the guard holds the only ring of keys.”

“Actually, he doesn’t,” Lancelot replied, pulling the keys from his cloak pocket. They still glistened with the blood of the guard who lay dead beyond the dungeon doors. 

Gawain’s eyes widened, then he barked, “Everybody up! Hurry, we don’t have much time.” Lancelot tried the keys on the ring until he found the one that opened Gawain’s cell. Gawain roused the old man on the ground and helped him to his feet, then took the keys from Lancelot, and began opening the other cells. “We know Arthur and the fey were ambushed, they never made it onto the boats. They must have gone back into hiding, but I can’t think where. I don’t think the fey have any allies left.”

“Maybe they do,” Lancelot said. “What do you know about the Red Spear?”

*****

In the camp of the Red Spear, in a well-appointed tent, Arthur was nose-deep in wet pussy. On his knees between the Red Spear’s legs, as she sat on the edge of a large bed, he felt her hand clamp down on the back of his neck, pressing his face into her heat. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop,” she said in her gravel-edged voice. “That’s it, make me come, you worthless, half-noble piece of -“ She was cut off by her own climax and Arthur took the opportunity to give her a shove backwards onto the bed. He had been with his fair share of women - and men too, when the fancy had struck him - but never anyone like her.

He pinned her beneath him, teasing her with his hard cock. She was strong, but he was still stronger. “Is this what you want?” he growled.

She replied by jabbing a knee into his thigh and the moment he loosened his hold on her, she had him flipped onto his back. She straddled him, spat on his cock, and jerked him off roughly with one hand, while the other closed around his neck. “Beg for it,” she said. 

Arthur sucked in his breath as the pleasure built. Please,” he croaked, suddenly unsure if he was begging to come or to live or both. Everything was a little dangerous with her. And he couldn’t get enough. He was so close. He was also seeing spots. “Please, Guinevere,” he said. 

She relented at the sound of her name. So few called her by it anymore. After all, her father had given her that name, and she wanted nothing from him. All she wanted now was the throne that was rightfully hers. But for some reason, she didn’t mind when Arthur said it. She looked down at him - dark skin and coarse, dark hair, so different than her own people, yet so beautiful. She leaned down to kiss him hard and let him guide his sizable cock inside her. He thrust into her and she in turn, ground her hips back into him until she had milked him dry, and they lay side by side in sweaty, satisfied silence. 

A voice at the tent flap broke their reverie. “Pardon, my Queen, but the scouts return. And they have prisoners. One claims he’s with Arthur.”

Guinevere shot Arthur a suspicious glance and he shrugged his shoulders, but got out of bed nevertheless. “I’ll see to it,” he said, and pulling on trousers, shirt and shoes, followed the shield maiden into the sunshine, his sword at his side.

Outside the tent, he saw a rag-tag group with burlap sacks still over their heads. The shield maiden pulled one sack free and Arthur gasped at the familiar face that was revealed. “Gawain!” he cried, and rushed forward to embrace his friend. “I thought you were dead!”

Gawain grimaced. “I should be,” he said. “They broke my legs, took an eye, burned my…” He stopped and shook his head. “I dreamed I saw Nimue. I think… Arthur, I think she saved me.”

Hearing Nimue’s name sent a dagger of grief through Arthur’s heart. Everyone knew of the demise of the Wolf Blood Witch, although the story differed from town to town. Some said the red paladins finally killed her, some said it was the Trinity Guard. Some even told of an avenging angel in the form of a girl child shooting an arrow directly into the Witch’s black heart. But she had never been the Wolf Blood Witch to him. To Arthur, she had just been a beautiful girl in a crowd - a girl with a smile that had made his heart skip a beat and a sword that had got her into endless trouble. She had just been Nimue. And now she was gone. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Whatever happened, I’m glad you’re here.” Arthur turned and called to the shield maiden impassively watching the reunion, “It’s alright. They’re with me.”

The woman scowled, but proceeded to remove the sacks so the assembled group could see again. And in Lancelot’s case - be seen. His eyes had barely adjusted to the light, before Arthur had his sword drawn, the blade pressed to his neck. “You!” he hissed. 

“Arthur, wait,” Gawain said. “Look at his face. Those aren’t tears of blood or whatever nonsense the church would have had us believe. He weeps ash. He’s ashfolk. Old fey. And he fights with us now.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the Weeping Monk. He had been the cause of so much suffering, so much death. “No,” he said. “He isn’t fit to fight with us. The only thing he’s fit for is the end of my sword.”

“And who gave you any authority to dole out sentences in my camp?” They all turned at the approach of the Red Spear. She was an intimidating woman - tall, with long, dark hair and arresting features. She took the sword from Arthur’s hand and used the blade to tilt Lancelot’s face up, then from one side to the other. “I’ve never seen markings like these,” she said. “Are you fey?”

“I am,” Lancelot said. 

“Prove it.”

Holding both hands up, Lancelot slowly crouched down until he could press his palm to the green earth, where it transformed to take on the colour and texture of the grass he touched. Guinevere grunted her satisfaction. She had learned that the fey possessed unique talents that might just prove useful when she went to war against her father. She looked the others up and down - mostly women and children and the old and frail. She sighed. That many more mouths to feed. Then she looked at Gawain. Here at least was a real man. “If you would stay, you must pledge your allegiance to the Red Spear and fight with us against Cumber and Uther and anyone else who stands in the way of my rightful ascent to the throne. In return, I offer you safe refuge in my camp and protection from your enemies, of which there seem to be many. What say you?”

“It was Cumber who ambushed us on the beach,” Arthur told Gawain. “He’s allied with the red paladins. He can’t be allowed to take the throne.”

Gawain nodded. Then to Guinevere he said, “Your enemy is my enemy. And so, your fight is my fight. You have my allegiance. And my thanks for your protection. I stand with the Red Spear.”

Guinevere looked at Lancelot. “And you?”

“I stand with the Red Spear as well,” he said. 

“Good. Then we’re done here.”

As Guinevere turned to go, Arthur began to protest, “You don’t know who he is! I don’t think -“

“I said we’re done here.” Guinevere stared Arthur down. He was an upstart and he could be a pain in her ass. But he could fight. And he could fuck. And as far as she was concerned, that was all that mattered. “Let’s go.”

Arthur shot a reluctant glance at Lancelot and Gawain, but then dutifully followed Guinevere back to her tent. He was in no position to argue with the future queen.

Out of the group, a small figure darted towards Gawain and threw thin arms around his waist. “Squirrel!” Gawain exclaimed, picking the boy up. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!”

“I knew you weren’t dead!” Squirrel told him. “I knew Nimue was wrong!”

“Nimue?” Gawain repeated, looking from Squirrel to Lancelot. 

After a moment, Lancelot drew the sword of power and held it out to Gawain, who recognized it at once. His face went pale. “Perhaps it’s time we talked,” Lancelot said. 

*****

Gawain and Lancelot’s arrival proved to be a turning point for the Red Spear. Gawain had been trained as a knight at King Uther’s court, before the church had turned Uther against the fey, and his knowledge of military tactics and the terrain, led the Red Spear’s forces to an easy victory against Cumber’s camp when they finally met in battle. Arthur fought alongside Guinevere, and true to their word, Lancelot and Gawain fought alongside them, and by nightfall, Cumber’s head sat on a spike outside the Red Spear’s tent for all to see. 

The ale flowed freely in the camp, as the warriors and shield maidens loyal to the Red Spear celebrated their victory. Arthur caroused with them for a time, but when he realized that Gawain was not among them, he went in search of his friend. He found Gawain in the tent Guinevere had granted him once she realized his worth. It was a good size bigger than Arthur’s own tent and well furnished, with a bed, a rug, a table and chairs. It was lit with torches on either side, and in their light, Arthur saw not only Gawain within the tent, but Lancelot too. He could not have said why the sight of them together, sharing food and wine in the close, warm space, made his jaw tighten so, but when he entered the tent, it was with a smile on his face, but knives in the gaze he leveled at the Weeping Monk. “Well, this is nice,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Gawain replied. He stood to pour Arthur a cup of wine and as he handed it over, he said, “You fought well today. Guinevere must be pleased.”

Arthur gulped the wine down too quickly. He had not realized Gawain now called the Red Spear by her given name too. “She is,” he said, moving to refill his cup. “She’s pleased with you too, oh great Green Knight. She has you to thank for today’s victory.”

Gawain sat back in his chair and rubbed his leg. The places where Brother Salt had broken it still pained him from time to time, even though the leg itself was completely healed. “We may have won the battle against Cumber, but the real war is still to come,” Gawain said. “Uther’s army will not be so easy to defeat, I’m afraid.”

“Good thing we have the Weeping Monk on our side then, isn’t it?” When neither Gawain nor Lancelot, sitting cross-legged on the rug, replied, Arthur continued his prodding. “What? Nothing to say for yourself, monk?”

“I’m not a monk,” Lancelot said. “Not anymore.”

“Then what are you?” Arthur nearly snarled. 

“I’m fey,” Lancelot answered him. “Which I suppose is more than you can say for yourself.”

“You fucking coward!” Arthur cried, lunging for Lancelot, but meeting Gawain’s broad chest instead, as he stepped between the two men. “How dare you talk about being fey? You who spent a lifetime killing innocent people! You have no right!”

“That’s enough,” Gawain said. 

Lancelot got to his feet. “You have no idea what I’ve been through, or why I’ve done the things I’ve done,” he said, his voice hard and bitter. “Don’t you think if I could take it all back, I would? That if I could trade my worthless life for even one of the fey lives I took, that I would do it in a heartbeat? Of course I would. But I can’t. All I can do is try to make amends, even though I know it will never be enough. So, if you want to kill me, go ahead. Either way, I am here to serve.”

“If you recall,” Gawain said to Arthur, “I didn’t trust you either when you first showed up.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked from Gawain to Lancelot and back again. He knew this feeling burning beneath his skin, even if he did not want to call it what it was. “When did you start to trust me?” he asked Gawain, although his stare remained fixed on Lancelot. “Was it after the first time we fought together?”  _ Jealousy _ . The thing Arthur felt watching Lancelot and Gawain together was jealousy. “Or was it after the first time we fucked?” __

Gawain bent to retrieve his own cup and fill it with wine. “It was both,” he said. 

“Well,” Arthur said, rounding the tent, feeling Lancelot’s eyes follow him, “We’ve tried one, haven’t we,  _ brother?  _ Maybe it’s time to try the other. There are many ways to serve, after all.” He closed in on the Weeping Monk, until they were only inches apart. The heat rising between them may have been hostile, but it was also undeniable. “Get on your knees,” he said. 

“Arthur…” Gawain’s voice was a warning. 

Arthur laughed. “What?” he said, taking in the length of Lancelot’s slim frame. “Look at him, he’s hard as a fucking rock.” It was true that Lancelot’s cock had stiffened and was noticeably straining at his pants. 

“He’s also shaking like a fucking leaf,” Gawain said. “Leave him be.”

Lancelot saw the challenge in Arthur’s expression, and beneath that, the thing that frightened him more - an animal lust. He swallowed hard. He had done it before, he could do it again. He slowly sank to his knees. 

Arthur wasted no time undoing his trousers and pulling his half-hard cock free. “Suck,” he said. 

Lancelot licked his lips and tentatively took Arthur in his mouth. His eyes watered, his throat closing reflexively around the cock that pushed into it, cutting off his air. Memories long buried came flooding back and he pulled away, gasping for breath. He knew what Arthur wanted. He had seen that look on a man’s face before. With trembling hands, he pulled his pants and tunic off and got down on all fours.  _ Like an animal _ . He remembered their laughter.  _ Carden’s dog.  _ He remembered the pain when they forced things inside him - sword handles, tree branches, even the end of a crucifix once.  _ Look, he likes it!  _ The shame when he knelt at their feet, kissing their red robes, the taste of their spend still sour in his mouth. But it had never been enough. It would never be enough. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the pain to come, but instead felt warm fingers touching the scars on his back. “Who did this to you?” Arthur asked. 

“Father Carden did some,” Lancelot replied. “I did the rest.”

On his knees, Lancelot missed the look exchanged between Arthur and Gawain. “You’ve been fucked before,” Arthur said. He was not asking, only seeking to confirm what he already knew. Lancelot did not answer, but his silence said plenty.

“By choice?” It was Gawain who spoke, his voice soft. “Or by force?”

“I never fought them. I never said no. They were men of God and I was… nothing.”

Nobody moved or said a word. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Then a voice broke the silence. “Arthur?” someone called from outside the tent. “Has anyone seen Arthur?”

Tucking himself back in, Arthur ran a hand through his hair and stepped out into the night. “I’m here,” he said. “What is it?”

“There’s someone here to see you,” the shield maiden replied. “Says she’s your sister.”

Out of the shadows behind her, a veiled woman appeared. Her black robe swept the ground as she approached Arthur and he felt a shiver pass through him, as if he had crossed paths with a ghost. Then the woman lifted her veil. “Hello, Arthur,” she said. 

“Morgana!” He stared at her for a moment, unsure what to do. There were so many walls between them, so much left unsaid. He stepped forward for an embrace, half expecting a rebuff, but she put her arms around him, his chin grazing the top of her head. He didn’t know what dark secrets she kept, or what kind of magic she was mixed up in, but despite it all, she was his little sister still. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as he finally let her go. 

She frowned as if it were the stupidest question she had ever heard. “There’s a war about to start,” she said. “It will take more than that fool head on your shoulders and the Red Spear at your side to get you what you want. I’m here to help.”

Arthur scoffed. “What I want,” he repeated. “And what do you imagine that is?”

“The throne of course.” Morgana looked at the blank expression on her brother’s face and sighed. She had always been the brains of the family. “Arthur, you do realize you are destined to be king and Guinevere your queen?”

This time, Arthur laughed out loud. “King?” he said. “Me?” He shook his head. “I think you’ve read your tea leaves wrong. If we manage to defeat Uther’s army and the Red Spear becomes queen, she will marry a nobleman, not a common thief. To be king is not within the realm of hope for someone like me. I have nothing to offer her.”

“That’s not true,” Morgana said. “You have the sword of power.”

“I don’t,” Arthur said. “I thought the sword was lost with Nimue.”

“No, brother,” Morgana replied, nodding towards the tent behind him. “The sword has been here, right under your nose, all along.” 

Suddenly, a vision of Lancelot in battle flashed before Arthur’s eyes. He had been so focused on hoping the Weeping Monk would either leave or die that he had missed what might be the key to his entire future, brilliant and bloodstained in the Monk’s very hands. “He’s had it this whole time,” Arthur said, realization dawning. “Now all I have to do is take it.”

Morgana paused, choosing her words carefully. She placed a hand on her brother’s arm. “Well,” she said, “Now all you have to do is be worthy of it.”

*****

There was much to be done to prepare for the fight ahead and Gawain found his days full. Arthur rarely left the Red Spear’s side and Morgana was busy making plans to smuggle the fey to safety. To Avalon. Gawain still could not quite believe such a place was real, but if what Morgana and Squirrel and Lancelot said was true, it was their best chance of saving the fey, especially as they faced a war that they might not win. 

_ Lancelot _ . Gawain sighed, thinking about the troubled young ashfolk. He had hurt so many, but then, he himself had been hurt in terrible ways. Everything he had done, however misguided, had been in pursuit of one thing. All he had ever wanted was to be loved. 

When at last Gawain found some time to himself, he took to the woods surrounding the Red Spear’s camp. The forest had always felt like home to him, a source of calm when his mind was anxious, a place to find peace when his heart was torn. He sat under a soaring oak tree, leaning against its trunk, letting the quiet and the beauty of the natural world nourish his soul. After some time, he said, ”Best be careful up there. Sleeping in trees is better suited for creatures with wings.”

There was a rustling in the leaves and then a light _ thud _ , as Lancelot landed on the ground behind him. “I’ve never fallen yet,” he said. 

“There’s a first time for everything.” Gawain paused, then said, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No.” Lancelot’s answer was too quick, too clipped to be true.

“You know, not everything has to be lies and shame and secrets. I know that is the way of the church, and likely the only way you’ve ever known, but we could just talk to each other.”

At first Lancelot didn’t reply, then he joined Gawain in the grass, leaning against the other side of the tree. Haltingly, he began, “I didn’t know that you... that you and Arthur were...” 

“Lovers? We have been.”

“Isn’t it a grave sin?”

“Pleasure given and received freely is never a sin, Lancelot,” Gawain said firmly. “What they did to you -  _ that _ is a sin. Their sin, not yours.

Gawain heard Lancelot draw a shaky breath, could almost feel the battle the boy fought with himself. “Gawain, do you think I’m a bad person?” he finally asked. 

“I think you’ve done bad things. And I think you’re here, now, trying to make up for them. You can’t change what’s done, only what can still be.”

“But I killed your friends. I delivered you to Father Carden. How can you ever forgive me?”

“It’s not for me to forgive you,” Gawain said. “If you truly want to help your people, you must learn to forgive yourself.”

There was a pause, then the sword of power appeared in the space between them. “Take it,” Lancelot said. “Give it to Arthur.”

Gawain eyed the sword. “Why don’t you give it to him yourself?”

“I can’t,” Lancelot’s voice broke on the word and Gawain understood his torment.

“There is no shame in wanting him, or in wanting to be wanted by him. Arthur’s bark is often bigger than his bite. He can be insensitive, impetuous, arrogant, a damn fool most of the time…” Gawain laughed softly. “But he’s a good man. He has a good heart. You’ve both had to be so much stronger than boys your age should ever have to be. You could be good for each other.”

“He hates me.”

“He’s angry with you. And I dare say, a bit jealous of you. But, he definitely wants you.” Lancelot heard the smile in Gawain’s voice and it made him flush red. “Arthur has only seen one side of you. Show him there’s more to you than the Weeping Monk you once were.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

Gawain considered. “Start with the truth,” he said. “And -“ he pushed the sword back towards Lancelot, “ - perhaps a peace offering.” Gawain stood and stretched. He watched Lancelot’s shadow on the ground. “For all his faults, Arthur has the greatest capacity for love - big, generous, passionate love - that I have ever known in another man. And you deserve to be loved, Lancelot. Don’t forget that.” 

With that, Gawain walked away. And behind him, Lancelot’s hand closed around the sword.

*****

Lancelot set out for Guinevere’s tent not once, not twice, but thrice, and turned back every time. On the fourth try, when the sun was starting to set, he finally managed to approach the shield maiden who guarded the entrance. “I wish to speak with Arthur,” Lancelot told her. 

The shield maiden rolled her eyes, as if his very presence was a nuisance to her, but disappeared inside the tent nevertheless. After a moment, she returned, and holding the tent flap open, jerked her head for Lancelot to enter. It was bigger even than Gawain’s tent, the rugs thicker, the bed wider. Arthur and Guinevere lay entwined, barely covered by a fur. Lancelot averted his eyes and tried to keep his composure. 

“What do you want?” Arthur asked. 

“I want… to talk to you,” Lancelot replied. 

“Is that all you want, little monk?” Guinevere asked, her lips curving into a suggestive smirk. 

“If you want to talk, talk,” Arthur said. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of my queen.”

Lancelot tried to gather his thoughts. Then he looked up, looked at both of them, and said, “For 20 years, I lived as a slave to Father Carden’s will, to his discipline, to his approval. He told me I was evil, unclean, demon-born, and the only path to salvation was to do the Lord’s work, no matter how hard. How… wrong. For 20 years, I knew no kindness, no friendship. My whole life was cruelty and suffering and blind dedication to an endless, futile quest. I thought it would save me. But it would have killed me in the end.” Lancelot took a breath and continued, “I won’t make excuses for the things I’ve done and I can’t change the past, but I’m here now. And I would earn your trust, if you’ll let me. Starting with this.”

Lancelot drew the sword, and going down on one knee, held it out to Arthur. Arthur climbed out of the bed and took the sword. It felt tailored to his hand and when he spun it, testing its weight, relishing its beauty, it felt right. It felt like the future. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Guinevere had wrapped herself in a robe and was staring at the sword with wide eyes. 

Lancelot sheathed it at once and presented it to the Red Spear. “The sword of power,” he said. 

She ran her fingers along the gold inlay of the sheath. In truth, she cared less about the sword itself, enchanted though it was said to be, and more about the power its legend carried. It was widely believed whoever wielded the sword of power was chosen, invincible, something approaching divine. “Do you know what this means?” she said to Arthur. “With the Pendragon name - the real Pendragon that is - and the sword together, there can be no disputing my claim.” She kissed him, taking the sword from him at the same time. “Our claim,” she whispered. 

Arthur glanced at Lancelot. “Gawain knows you’re here?”

Lancelot nodded. Arthur was still very much naked, and he was finding it near impossible to keep from staring at his perfect, golden-brown body. Lancelot looked up to meet his eyes instead. “Gawain told me to give it to you,” he said. “Maybe he knew it would do more to change the world in your hands than in mine.”

Guinevere and Lancelot both saw the shift in Arthur’s expression, but where it made Guinevere smile, it made it hard for Lancelot to breathe. “The sword changes things,” Guinevere said, pulling boots on beneath her robe. “We must get messages to the tribes. More banners will come.” She looked at Arthur. “We’re going to win,” she said. “I would have Gawain’s council on these matters.”

“I’ll come with you,” Arthur said, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. 

“Stay,” she told him. Her eyes moved to Lancelot, still on his knee behind them. “He’s a pretty toy, Arthur” she murmured. “Try not to break him.” And then she was gone. 

Arthur turned back to Lancelot. “So,” he said, “you offer the sword freely?” Lancelot nodded. “Is there anything else you wish to offer?”

“My protection,” Lancelot replied. “For you and your queen, for as long as I live.”

Arthur was beside him now. “Anything else?”

Lancelot swallowed and said, “My body, for whatever it’s worth, for your pleasure, for as long as you want me.”

Arthur tilted Lancelot’s face up to look at him. “You offer these of your own free will?”

“I do,” Lancelot said, and then everything was happening faster than he could process. Arthur’s mouth was on his, and his clothes were on the floor, and his cock was hard in Arthur’s hand. Arthur wasn’t exactly gentle, but neither was he rough, and the sensations his touch sent shooting through Lancelot’s body were different than any pleasure he had known before. He got on all fours and waited. 

Arthur laughed and it made Lancelot cringe. His red-clad brothers had always laughed while they hurt him too. “You did that before,” Arthur said. “You don’t really think I'd fuck you like that? No warning, no preparation?” Lancelot looked back over his shoulder and the expression on his face made Arthur turn sober. “Oh gods, you do really think that,” he muttered. He rubbed his face as if it hurt his head to think of it. He bent to pull a small trunk from under the bed and then patted the space next to it. “Get up here,” he said. Lancelot came slowly to the bed and touched the furs that covered it. Father Carden had said that worldly pleasures breed laziness, and in all his time serving the church, he had never been given a bed of his own. He looked inside the trunk that Arthur had opened and his weeping eyes widened. “Take your pick,” Arthur said. 

In the trunk, were carvings of cocks, the likes of which Lancelot had never seen. They were made of polished stone and steel and lacquered wood. Some were large with balls and ornate handles, some were small, more like cones that flared at the base. From the velvet pocket sewn into the side of the chest, Arthur withdrew a handful of vials. “There’s cedar, sandalwood, pine, rose, I’m not sure what this one is, grape seed, and sunflower. What’s your preference?”

“For what?” 

“Oil. Obviously.” Lancelot said nothing. “Shall I pick for you?” Arthur asked. When Lancelot nodded, Arthur selected a bit of steel and a vial of sandalwood scented oil, then closed the trunk and put it aside. “Lie down,” Arthur said. 

Lancelot hesitated. His heart was pounding. He had consented after all. So why was he suddenly scared? 

He lay down on the bed and Arthur came to kneel in the space between his legs. “Now, listen to me,” he said, opening the vial and pouring oil onto a tapered steel head. “I’m going to fuck you properly, because I think it’s what you want and I know it’s what I want...” He rolled Lancelot over and Lancelot felt the cold steel between his buttocks. He resisted out of habit, but Arthur waited, and as he relaxed, he felt it slide slowly inside. “... Even though I hated myself for wanting it.” With the steel lodged inside him, Arthur rolled him back over and stretched out on top of him. “I think it’s time we both put the past behind us, stopped hating ourselves for what we want, what we’ve done, or weren’t able to do. Can we agree to that, Lancelot?”

It was the first time Arthur had called him by his true name and it shook something loose in Lancelot’s heart to hear it. He nodded and then gasped as Arthur’s mouth began to move down his body. “I can’t promise I won’t hurt you…” Arthur dragged his tongue along the sensitive underside of Lancelot’s cock, “... a little bit…” Then his whole length was in Arthur’s mouth and Lancelot was making small, helpless noises as Arthur took all of him in. This was not the gentle caress of Nimue’s lips, but a deep, rhythmic sucking that pushed him nearly past the limits of control. Arthur gathered Lancelot’s balls in one hand and he felt his legs lifted to rest on strong shoulders. Arthur’s mouth was pressed to his neck and then his ear. “But I can promise…” he felt the steel slide free, “... I’ll make it feel really…” There was oil everywhere, making both of them slick in the torchlight, “.... really…” Arthur’s cock took the place of the steel, warm and hard and human; so different than the ways he had been penetrated in the past, “... good.”

Lancelot let out a half-stifled cry as Arthur pushed inside him. The steel had stretched him a little - not nearly enough to accommodate Arthur’s size. But Lancelot was no stranger to pain, and he sank into it, abandoning himself to Arthur’s kisses, feeling himself lost in Arthur’s night-dark eyes. 

“Lancelot, did you hear me?” Lancelot blinked and tried to focus on what Arthur was saying, but the burning was overshadowed by something more powerful now and every time Arthur moved inside him, it was a near unbearable mix of pain and pleasure combined. “I said, are you alright?”

Lancelot could only manage to moan in response. And when Arthur’s hand closed around his cock, jerking him off in time with each thrust, it finally sent him over the edge, spilling in hot spurts onto Arthur’s belly. Arthur came not long after, but when he pulled out, he frowned at the blood mixed with oil smearing his cock. He pulled the trunk from under the bed and rummaged inside, until he found a small tin. He stopped to splash some water from the basin on his face and body, using a rag to wipe himself dry, then returned to the bed and unceremoniously flipped Lancelot back onto his belly. Scooping cool salve from the tin, Arthur pressed his fingers to Lancelot’s opening, working the salve inside.  Lancelot squirmed in discomfort, trying to pull away, but Arthur sat on his legs holding him in place. “Idiot,” he muttered. “This will help some. You’ll still be sore, but there’s no helping that.” When he was satisfied, he lay down next to Lancelot, throwing the fur over them both. With his head in his hand, he looked at Lancelot’s pale, ash-streaked face, half-hidden in shadow. “Why didn’t you tell me to stop?” he asked. 

Lancelot still felt a bit dazed, drunk without touching a drop of wine. He looked up at Arthur, not knowing how to answer. He hadn’t said to stop because he hadn’t known it was an option. “It was as you said,” he finally replied. “It hurt a little and then it felt… more than good. Better than good. Better than anything.”

Arthur grinned and lay back on his pillow. “Happy to hear it,” he said, “but next time, if it hurts - if it really hurts - fucking say something, got it?”

Lancelot nodded. He was sore - Arthur was right about that - but he was also content, cared for in a way he had rarely known. One of the torches in the tent went out and he could hear Arthur’s breathing lengthening. “Arthur, should I go?” Lancelot asked softly. He didn’t want to go, but didn’t quite know if he was welcome to stay. “When the Red Spear returns…”

Arthur yawned and said, “There’s plenty of room, she won’t mind. Something tells me she has her own plans for you. Do you fancy women too?”

The directness of the question made Lancelot blush, but he found his voice to answer, “I do, yes.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” Arthur said, and minutes later, he was fast asleep and snoring.

Lancelot lay awake, the bed strangely soft beneath him. When later, he heard Guinevere return, he sat up, “I can go,” he said. But he made no move to go. Guinevere placed the sword of power carefully beside the bed and then turned to look at Lancelot in the dim light. With one finger, she traced the lines of ash on his face. Looking back at her, Lancelot recognized something in her eyes; a storm, a quest she longed to see finished. Without thinking, he turned his head and kissed the backs of her fingers. She flashed a smile and then gave him a gentle push, so that he lay back down next to Arthur’s warmth. She undressed and then lay down herself, on the other side of the king-to-be, and they all slept at last. 

History would come to make their names famous, but few know that the story began this way - with a magician and a mage, a witch and a knight, and Lancelot, Guinevere, and Arthur asleep in a tent, dreaming of a sword, a crown, and a love that would last for all time. 

A love that would become the stuff of legends. 


End file.
